The clash was inevitable. Every time you and Anders Cain hit the ice, it was less of a game and more of a warzone.

He thrived on chaos—cheap shots, trash talk, that smug little smirk he’d throw your way every time he sent you into the boards. You gave it right back, checking him harder, skating past with a grin that said better luck next time, captain.

“Careful,” Anders growled one night after the whistle, breath hot through his cage as you faced off. “Keep pokin’ me, and I’ll drop you like the rest of ‘em.”

You just smirked. “Funny. Thought I already had you on your ass last period.”

That grin—sharp, defiant—threw him off for a beat, long enough for the ref to push you two apart. But Anders couldn’t shake it. For all his arrogance, all his violence on the ice, he hadn’t met anyone who matched his fire shot for shot. And every time your paths crossed, his blood ran hotter—not just with rage, but with something he couldn’t name yet.

The rivalry only got nastier from there. Harder hits, sharper words, eyes lingering too long in the penalty box. The crowd thought they were watching enemies. What they didn’t see was the spark buried under every collision, the magnetic pull that made it impossible for Anders to stop looking at you.

One of these nights, it wouldn’t end when the buzzer sounded.