The roar of the Wolverhampton crowd at Aldersley Leisure Village was still echoing off the rafters when Gerwyn Price locked eyes with James Wade, the air thick with the chalk dust of anticipation and the faint hum of electronic scoreboards. It was day two of the 2025 Mr Vegas Grand Slam of Darts, and Group D was a pressure cooker: Ricky Evans had stunned the field with an upset over Price the day before, while Wade had edged out Switzerland’s Stefan Bellmont in a nail-biter. For The Iceman, this showdown against his longtime rival and good mate was do-or-die—survival meant advancing to the knockout stages; defeat spelled an early flight home. But before a single dart whistled toward the board, Price dropped a line that cut through the camaraderie like a razor-sharp 180, revealing the ruthless edge that has defined his three-time Grand Slam triumphs.
As the pair warmed up backstage, away from the glaring lights but under the watchful gaze of tournament officials, Wade extended the usual sportsman’s courtesy. “All the best,” he said, his voice carrying the calm precision of a man who’s etched his name into darts lore with 11 major PDC titles. Price, the 40-year-old Welsh powerhouse with a reputation for turning ice-cold pressure into molten gold, paused mid-throw. A grin flickered across his face, but his eyes—those piercing blues that have stared down legends like Michael van Gerwen and Phil Taylor—hardened. “James, I’m your friend,” he replied, the words laced with a playful menace, “but on the stage, I hate you, bud.” It was a revelation straight from the heart of competitive fire, a reminder that in the unforgiving arena of professional darts, bonds forged in practice rooms dissolve the moment the walk-on music fades. Price later unpacked the moment in a candid chat, emphasizing the no-holds-barred mentality that fueled his performance: “I’m not here to be your friend; I’m here to smash you up.” The quote hung in the air like a missed double, underscoring the duality of their relationship—pals off the oche, predators when the stakes hit £650,000 in prize money.
The tension had been brewing even before they stepped into the spotlight. Wade, ever the contrarian, had already courted whispers of rebellion by lingering during his entrance, defying the PDC’s shiny new guideline rolled out just ahead of the November 8 kickoff. With crowds swelling past 10,000 per session in this 18th edition of the event—the last with its compact 32-player format before ballooning to 48 next year—organizers aimed to shave seconds off the spectacle. No more meandering through fan forests for autographs; entrances were to be swift, surgical, keeping the focus laser-sharp on the legs ahead. But The Machine, the 42-year-old Englishman whose mechanical moniker belies a flair for the dramatic, wasn’t having it. He halted mid-stride, turning to high-five a sea of outstretched hands and beaming under the flat cap that’s become his trademark. The delay stretched the moment, leaving Price—and the officials—idling awkwardly, a ripple of chuckles bubbling up from the stands.
As they finally converged at the stage, Price couldn’t resist the dig, his Welsh lilt cutting through the pre-match formalities. “Did you not read the players’ brief?” he quipped, laughter bubbling in his voice as he eyed Wade’s unrepentant grin. It was a light-hearted jab at the rule-bending antics, but beneath it simmered the competitive venom Price had already unleashed backstage. The crowd, sensing the spark, leaned in closer, their chants a cacophony of “Wade! Wade!” and “Ice Man!” that turned the arena into a coliseum of fervor. For Wade, the pause was pure poetry—a tribute to the fans who’ve fueled his journey from garage mechanic to world number five, with runner-up finishes in three World Championships and triumphs like the 2009 Premier League etched in history. “The fans are why we do this,” he’d muse later, towel slung over his shoulder like a badge of battle. “You can’t script every moment, and I’d rather give them something real than rush through like a robot.” Yet in that instant of defiance, had he unwittingly handed Price the psychological edge?
What followed was a masterclass in controlled demolition. Price, channeling the “hate” he’d professed, dismantled Wade with surgical efficiency: a blistering 102.34 average, five checkouts from six doubles attempted, including monstrous 112 and 134 finishes that left the board trembling. Legs one through five blurred by in a 5-0 whitewash, Wade’s flashes of vintage form—a blistering 140 opener in the second—smothered by missed doubles that converted at a dismal 25%. It was redemption for Price after Evans’ shock 5-4 opener upset, where the qualifier’s nervy 170 checkout had exposed rare cracks in The Iceman’s armor. “In a knockout situation, I seem to find my best stuff,” Price reflected post-match, his tone a mix of relief and resolve. “Yeah, I played well today. James missed a couple of chances, but I was clear to go.” For Wade, the fifth seed who’d conquered this very event in 2007 against Taylor himself, it was a bitter pill—his second straight group-stage exit after a strong qualification run, fueling retirement murmurs even as he vowed, “I’ve got more in the tank.”
Their post-match clasp was all respect, Price pulling Wade close for a whisper that sealed the moment’s warmth: a nod to the entrance antics, urging him to “just blame the fans if the bosses ask.” It echoed the backstage banter, a bridge back to friendship amid the fray. As Group D wrapped with Evans scraping through 5-4 over Bellmont to join Price in the last 16, the tournament thundered on. Defending champ Luke Littler, the 18-year-old phenom who’s already banked £1 million-plus this year, cruised his opener, while upsets like Cam Crabtree’s 5-1 demolition of Jonny Clayton kept the underdog narrative alive. Yet Price’s revelation lingers as the event’s emotional core: in darts, where a whisper can ignite a whitewash, the line between ally and adversary is as thin as a wire oche.
Price now eyes Monday’s clash with Bellmont, a rematch laced with the Swiss qualifier’s own stunner over Wade. At 40, with three Grand Slams and a world championship to his name, he’s the veteran anchor in a sport reshaped by teens like Littler and Rock. Wade, meanwhile, retreats to plot his 2026 Worlds charge, his defiance a spark for fans who cherish the unscripted. In an era of streamlined entrances and stat sheets, Price’s words remind us: darts thrives on heart, hate, and the unbreakable pull between rivals who, off-stage, share a laugh and a lager. As the £500,000 winner’s pot beckons come November 16, one thing’s clear—the Iceman’s chill runs deepest when the friendship freezes over.
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