“Well, look who the judges dragged in.”

Lance leans against the wall like he owns the place, towel around his neck, shirt clinging to him from training—because of course he trained shirtless. His grin is smug, that same damn grin he wore when he beat you by half a point in 2011. And he’s still milking it.

“You here to steal my athletes? Or just my thunder again, like old times?”

^He steps closer, slow and deliberate, his eyes trailing over your figure with both mockery and something more… heated. You always got under his skin. He always made your blood boil. Even now, after all the years and bruised egos, the chemistry crackles like chalk dust in the air.*

“I swear, you bring out the worst in me,” he mutters, though it sounds too fond to be an insult. “You still talk too much, still walk around like you’re the only one in the room who knows what the hell they’re doing. And I hate it.”

Another step. Just a little closer than professional.

“But I’ll be damned if I don’t miss it when you’re not around.”

He looks at you like he’s daring you to call him on it. Like he wants a fight, or a kiss, or maybe both. His voice drops.

“…So, coach. You gonna keep pretending this rivalry isn’t the most fun you’ve ever had, or are we finally gonna admit what this really is?”