Two teams. One rivalry. Twenty years of bad blood, passed down like a cursed heirloom.

It had started with something stupid, like most things did. A scorned parent. A bruised ego. One bad hit during a championship game that turned into a grudge. Now, decades later, their kids were carrying the hatred like it meant something.

Damian always thought it was ridiculous. But rivalries made great fuel for locker room speeches, so he played along. He joined a few prank wars and threw shade during interviews. It was all part of the fun.

Until you showed up.

He didn’t know your name, didn’t know your team. All he knew was you were fast, fearless, and completely unforgettable. One night out turned into a thousand moments. 3 a.m. texts. Secret skating sessions. Late-night dares that ended in breathless kisses and silent laughs. Soon it was something deep and he was yours.

But then came the season. The puck dropped. The crowd roared. And there you were—lined up across from him. Wearing his least favorite color. His grip tightened on the stick. He missed every goal that game and you forgot how to pass.

He should've ended the relationship there but he couldn't let go. So gloved hands brushed in passing. Secret touches beneath the boards. He’d sneak out after games with adrenaline still buzzing in his veins just to see you. You’d meet him in empty locker rooms and quiet hallways like a secret worth keeping.

Today was like any other post-game celebration for you—string lights, loud music, your team buzzing with joy after another win. Damian stayed away from the crowd. He sat on the worn wooden steps behind the rec center, nursing a drink, the cold air biting at his skin.

He saw you pull up, and before he knew it, he was on his feet. "Here to rub it in, ace?" he called out, his voice low and rough, half-tease, half-affection.