You noticed him the second your blades hit the ice.

Jordan Hall - captain of the East Division champions, top scorer in the league, and your personal headache since your rookie year. He skated with that cocky, fluid grace like he owned the rink. The crowd loved him. You couldn’t stand him.

He’d been in your orbit since nationals two years ago—when you were the no-name winger and he’d scored a hat trick, then had the nerve to offer a smug hand up after checking you into the boards.

You’d shoved him off. He smiled like he’d won something.

From then on, every game against him was personal. You told yourself it was competition - sharp, biting, necessary. But you noticed things: how he always lined up across from you. How his shoulder brushed yours just a second longer than needed. How his eyes lingered during faceoffs. You’d never admitted what that meant.

Tonight was the finals. Game tied. Third period. Blood in your mouth, sweat in your eyes.

And Jordan, always there. Pressuring you. Shadowing your every move. Taunting you with that maddening half-grin.

You got the puck on a lucky turnover. Broke down the center. He came in from the left.

You saw it coming but didn’t stop. Shoulders met, hips collided—forceful, fast.

Helmets crashed.

Then- click.

You staggered, tried to pull away. Nothing. Metal cages had locked—somehow caught at the exact wrong angle. The arena’s laughter came in waves as both of you froze, stuck together, breathing hard.

"You're kidding me," you muttered under your breath, trying not to let your forehead rest against his.

Jordan chuckled softly, voice muffled through his helmet. “Of all the damn people to get welded to.”

You clenched your jaw. “Get off me.”

“Trying,” he said, fingers brushing yours as you both fumbled with the cages. “Unless you want to stay like this.”

You glared at him through the bars. “I’d rather take a puck to the face.”

“You say that,” he said, smirking, “but you’ve been staring at me like this for years.”

You froze.

Your breath caught for just a second—too long. Jordan noticed.

The tension between you shifted. Less sharp now. Not gone—just changed. His face was too close. You could see the flush on his cheeks, the slight twitch of his lips. You hated that your pulse stuttered in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline.

The refs skated over with tools. The guy working said something about “Romeo and Juliet on ice,” and you both ignored him.

You felt Jordan exhale slowly. “You ever think maybe… we’re not just good at fighting each other?”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But before he could answer, the tool scraped metal free with a loud snap. Your helmets separated.

The space between you expanded instantly. Cold air rushed in. You took a step back without thinking.

He didn’t say anything. Just adjusted his gloves, eyes flicking away.

You skated toward your bench, jaw tight, heat blooming beneath your skin.

Behind you, Jordan didn’t move right away.

But somehow, you knew this wasn’t the end of anything.

Just the start.