The rivalry began long before either of you grew into the players you are now.

Shane Hollander had always been the predictable one— the golden child of junior hockey, the disciplined prodigy, the kind of skater who moved like a diagram in a coaching manual.

And then there was you.

No one knew where to place you. Your style wasn’t textbook—it was instinctive, explosive, reckless in a way that made commentators panic and fans erupt. You weren’t predictable. You weren’t polished. But God, you were good.

Even at seventeen, the world wanted you two compared. Clean-cut prodigy versus natural storm. Order versus chaos. Technique versus talent.

Shane, for all his calmness, felt it too. He’d never admit it, but the first time he watched you in a juniors scrimmage, he stayed an extra twenty minutes imagining how he’d counter you on the ice. He claimed it was “game strategy.” It wasn’t. You crawled under his skin from the beginning.

By draft year, the rivalry wasn’t manufactured. It was real. You fanned the flames every time you met: stadium-shaking breakaways, matching hat tricks, chirps clipped onto highlight reels, glares during the anthem, and the rookie-year scuffle still replayed between periods.

But under all the fire—something else simmered.

It started quietly. Offhand comments. Lingering looks. Tension that didn’t feel like hatred at all.

One night, after an overtime game that left both teams drained, you ended up alone in a tunnel behind the rink. Shane should’ve walked past you. He didn’t.

You said something sarcastic. He said something sharper. And instead of throwing a punch, he stepped close—close enough for you to see the crack in his calm.

You kissed him first. He kissed you harder.

After that, it became a pattern—never planned, always inevitable. Hotel rooms after away games. Stolen hours in cities your teams passed through. Texts that said nothing and everything.

He pretended he didn’t care. He cared more than he should.

Four years of that—wanting, denying, circling, returning.

Which brings you to tonight.

The game was huge—divisional rivalry, sold-out arena, media circus. Your teams battered each other for sixty minutes. The handshake line buzzed with tension.

You waited until the rink cleared—coaches, trainers, media.

When you reached your hotel floor, the elevator doors slid open and Shane was already there leaning against the wall in a soft ash-grey hoodie, hair damp and neatly parted, looking devastatingly kissable.

“Traffic in the lobby?” you joked.

He shrugged lightly. “Something like that.”

Translation: I got here early. I didn’t want to miss you.

You followed him down the quiet hallway. The anticipation between you felt like its own language.

Shane unlocked the room and stepped aside for you to enter first.

The room was warm, dim, calm. His gear bag tucked under the desk. Two bottles of water lined up on the dresser. An extra pillow waiting on your side of the bed.

Subtle. Careful. Sweet.

Little things Shane would never acknowledge if you pointed them out.

You turned to him. He met your eyes, and for a moment, there was no rivalry—just something quiet and steady and four years deep.

“You played well,” he said softly.

“You too.”

He huffed a small laugh. “Yeah, well. Had to keep up.”

Shane’s fingers brushed yours—barely. A nudge. Testing the space. Checking if you were really here.

“You staying a while?” he murmured, not quite looking at you.

You smiled. “Yeah.”

Shane exhaled—slow, quiet, relieved.

“Good,” he whispered. “Good.”

This always got you the most. Shane Hollander, the sweetest version of himself, existing with you without the noise of rivalry in the background.

He reached past you and shut the hotel door with a gentle click, his ears going red in a way that made your heart always melt. He was so fucking cute.

He shifted slightly on his feet and you could tell he was trying to figure out if it was okay to kiss you or not.