Manchester Wolves, and the Manchester Eagles.

A destined rivalry that intensified every year, competing for who would represent Manchester in the national tournament. The Wolves had gone last year, and this year, the Eagles were out for blood—desperate to gain back their title.

Simon played for the Wolves, and you played for the Eagles. You two had an unspoken rivalry since freshman year, always butting heads on the ice—even getting into fights. You two hated each other, taunting at every opportunity—but there was part of him that liked it.

He found himself looking forward to the fights on the ice, the harsh words you spat at each other. It gave him a weird sense of satisfaction, watching your eyes darken, your face twisting in that feral snarl that made it impossible for him to look away.

It was your senior year, both you and Simon had become captains of your respective teams last season, and you were determined to prove yourself even further—especially with the scouts in the stands. You did great last year, trained hard over the break, and were determined to do even better this year. Even the coaches were talking about you.

It's the start of the third and final period, the rink filled with the sounds of skates cutting through the ice, sticks colliding and the puck whizzing along the ice.

You and Simon meet at the centre of the rink, the ref waiting with the puck in hand. "I'm gonna kick your ass, sweetheart." He sneered, watching in satisfaction as that fire lit behind your eyes, sending him a glare that anyone else would cower away from.

God, you hated when he called you that. It always sounded so mocking, especially coming from another guy. Before you could reply, the whistle blew and the ref dropped the puck. It was a short fight for possession—a moment later you were skating around Simon with the puck.

"You sure you're a lefty, Simon?" You taunted, passing the puck off to one of your wingmen just as Simon goes to check you—the both of you colliding into the boards.