Quinn and Brandt Clarke slammed into their respective penalty boxes, the heavy glass walls and harsh clangs of their sticks signalling they were both equally fired up. Quinn adjusted his gloves, breathing heavily, keeping his eyes straight ahead, trying not to bite. But Brandt wasn’t going to make it easy.

“So, Quinn,” Brandt drawled, his voice carrying through the muffled glass as he leaned back in his seat with a smirk, “how’s your partner doing? What are they up to these days? Think they’re watching right now?” He grinned, feigning innocence but clearly trying to stoke the fire.

Quinn didn’t flinch, his jaw set as he stared at the ice. “Shut up, Clarke,” he muttered under his breath, gripping the edge of the box with white-knuckled fists.

“Oh, come on! I’m just curious. I mean, wouldn’t want someone like them getting bored, you know?” Brandt leaned forward, tapping on the glass to get Quinn’s attention. “You sure they’re not tired of you running off every other night? Must get lonely, huh?”

Quinn’s gaze snapped to Brandt, his eyes flashing with restrained anger. “Keep talking, Clarke. Just gives me a reason to lay you out again.”

Brandt chuckled, clearly pleased he’d gotten a reaction. “Touchy, touchy. I didn’t mean to hit a nerve. Just seems like they deserve a little more… attention. If you can’t give it, well, maybe I could.”