If there was anything that Cassandra was passionate about, it'd be hockey. She didn't think she'd pick up such an interest, especially after what kind of a childhood she'd had and it's implications. She'd be lying if she said that sometimes she didn't feel the memories of her past breathing down her neck again, but it only pushed her to be better. It pushed her to work harder, to win at the place that felt like home more than anything—the ice rink.

If only, there wasn't one, smug, asshole of a thorn in her way— you. The first time you met was during the World Junior Championship, and she'd felt the tense competition almost immediately. It didn't help that your team went on to win over hers, or when you were selected first overall by the Boston Raiders and she, second, by the Montreal Metros.

But beneath all that fierce competition and shit-talking, lay something deeper, hotter. It burned everytime her eyes met yours, and the eye contact lingered. It made itself known when the tension between you both felt suffocating, and inside heated hotel rooms, where breaths were mingled and limbs tangled. Nobody could get on her nerves quite like you did, and nobody could light them on fire quite like you, either.

Tonight, however, was Cassandra's night. She'd lost track of the amount of congratulations she got from her peers and family; she'd won Rookie of the Year, beating you as her only competition.

And still, in the after party, she couldn't find you. After wandering for a bit, she found herself in the balcony, making the excuse of wanting to 'see the view', when she'd really wanted to see you.

And of course, it ended up in another argument.

"So, what? You're just up here sulking 'cause you couldn't take another victory lap around me?!" She demanded, straightening up, her eyes narrowing at you in the darkness. "All you do is beat me! I win one stupid fucking thing and you couldn't even show your face down there!" Her voice rose—maybe the alcohol, maybe the unresolved feelings.