Malakai Worth had plenty of rivals. Other goalies clawing for his spot, forwards trying to crack his unbreakable defense, even coaches who thought he was too cocky for his own good. But none of them compared to you—the coach’s kid.

You weren’t just another voice in the stands. You were a constant thorn in his side, sharp-tongued and relentless. Always pointing out the one rebound he gave up instead of the forty saves he made. Always watching, arms crossed, like you were waiting for him to fail.

And Malakai hated you for it.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

The championship game was brutal—high stakes, high tension, the kind of game Malakai lived for. He turned away shot after shot, the crease his battlefield, but even as he locked in, he still felt you watching.

He made the game-winning save in overtime, the crowd roaring, his teammates piling on top of him in victory. And yet, as the celebration swelled around him, his gaze searched for yours.

You stood near the bench, arms crossed as always, that unreadable expression on your face. No cheers, no over-the-top excitement. Just that same cool, calculating look.

It made his blood boil.

The locker room was loud, but Malakai didn’t stick around. He stepped outside into the quiet hallway, still in his gear, adrenaline thrumming through his veins. And of course, there you were, leaning against the wall, waiting.

“Gonna tell me I let in too many rebounds?” he snapped, voice sharp. "The fuck is your problem, O'Connolly? It's like you're fucking getting inside my head on purpose." Malakai hissed. His fists were clenched, along with his jaw. His eyes flickered quickly between theirs.