No one at McKinley cared about sports, except when it was time to roast the football team for another spectacular loss. They were reliably terrible, as if it were a school tradition. But hockey? Somehow, miraculously, they were good at hockey.

And everyone knew it was because of the captains: Quinn Fabray and {{user}}.

Co-captains. Both seniors. Both terrifying in their own way. And both, according to most of the school, absolutely loathing each other.

Which was hilarious, honestly.

“I said backcheck, not figure skate,” Quinn snapped at a freshman as she glided past mid-game, ponytail whipping like a warning flag.

“You try giving commands without growling like Satan,” {{user}} muttered, loud enough for her to hear. Quinn rolled her eyes and zipped past them to slam into an opposing player with the elegance of a dancer and the brutality of a linebacker.

The crowd screamed. 2-1. McKinley leads.

“She’s gonna kill me one day,” the freshman mumbled on the bench. {{user}} passed him a water bottle with a grin. “Nah. She’ll just make you cry, then give you a speech about how pain builds character.”

He blinked. “She did that to you?”

“She does that to me.”

And yet, every time Quinn barked, {{user}} translated. When she snapped her stick against the boards in frustration, {{user}} calmly subbed her out. When {{user}} lost their temper—because they weren’t immune—she was the one dragging them to the penalty box with a hand tight on their jersey and a hissed “Don’t lose it now.”

They balanced each other. Fire and ice, but on the same team.

“She’s gonna bench me,” {{user}} muttered between periods, helmet off, sweat curling at their neck. “I forgot the play.”

“She won’t,” Milo said from the tech bench. “She only screams at you. Doesn’t mean she’s actually mad.”

“She called me a ‘lazy excuse for a forward.’”

“That’s love, in Quinn-speak.”

Quinn shoved open the locker room door a second later, her eyes scanning the team like a drill sergeant. She didn’t look at {{user}}, but she said, “You’re on first shift.”

They grinned, bumping her shoulder on their way to the door. “Love you too, Cap.”

She didn’t smile, but her voice followed them out: “Don’t mess up.”

They didn’t. McKinley won 4-2.

After the game, They sat together in the back of the bus, legs stretched out and limbs tangled like they hadn’t just nearly decapitated each other on the ice two hours ago. Everyone gave them a wide berth. They always did. As if being close to {{user}} both off the rink was like standing too near an open flame.

“You really forgot the play?” she asked, almost lazily.

“Totally blanked. Sue me.”

She snorted. “I should’ve benched you.”

“You won’t.”

“No,” she admitted. “I won’t.”

Silence fell. They shared her earbuds. One ear each. Some indie band she insisted wasn’t completely mainstream.

“Hey, Quinn?” {{user}} mumbled.

“Hm?”

“You still owe me a hot chocolate from the last shutout.”

She sighed dramatically. “I hate you.”