Josiah Kelly still remembered Regina like a bruise you forgot about until something pressed against it.

World Juniors had been loud, cold, and relentless—Canada’s golden boy pipeline versus the world’s hungriest prospects. Josiah had already been marked as the player to watch: disciplined, deadly accurate, infuriatingly calm. The kind of kid scouts loved because he never wasted a stride or a breath.

And then there had been you—{{user}}.

They’d met outside the rink, boots crunching over dirty snow, steam curling from their mouths. Josiah had introduced himself because that was what you did—because he’d been raised right, because his father had drilled courtesy into him like a reflex. You’d looked at him with that unreadable half-smile, eyes flicking over him with a focus that felt less like interest and more like assessment. The conversation hadn’t lasted long. Josiah barely remembered the words—only the way your accent wrapped around English, sharp and deliberate, and the way he’d felt strangely off-balance afterward.

Russia won that year.

Four months later, the NHL draft made everything official. You went first overall to Boston, smug and unapologetic, already playing the villain the league would come to adore and despise. Josiah followed second to Montreal, shoulders squared, jaw tight, already carrying the weight of expectation like it was welded to his spine. The media loved the contrast. The narratives wrote themselves.

Boston’s bad boy.

Montreal’s golden captain.

Four years passed, reputations calcified. Josiah became known for his relentless work ethic, his quiet leadership, his refusal to indulge in anything that might dull his edge. Zero fun. All business. No room for mistakes. You became infamous—chirping, instigating, smiling like you were always one step ahead of everyone else on the ice. Fans either wore your jersey or booed you until they were hoarse.

And somehow, despite all that time, they’d never faced each other in the NHL.

Until tonight.

The Montreal Metros vs. The Boston Bears.

The Bell Centre was feral with noise, blue and black flooding the stands, the air vibrating with the kind of energy that sank straight into Josiah’s bones. The Metros were up by one late in the third, the clock bleeding down in merciless seconds. Sweat trickled down his spine beneath the pads, his lungs burning in that familiar, addictive way.

You skated past him at the faceoff circle, close enough that Josiah caught your grin through the visor.

“Is this all Montreal’s got?” you murmured, accent smooth and deliberate. “I expected more.”

Josiah’s jaw clenched. He ignored you. He always ignored chirps.

You leaned in again later, shoulder brushing his as you battled along the boards. “You look tense,” you added lightly. “Captain nervous?”

Something snapped—small, sharp, immediate. That goddamn accent curled under his skin, wormed into places he usually kept locked down. Josiah could feel it now, the heat behind his ribs, the way his focus sharpened into something almost reckless.

This wasn’t just a game anymore. It hadn’t been since Regina.

He needed one more goal. Not for the scoreline—for himself.

The puck slid loose at center ice. Josiah took it without thinking, legs pumping, the world narrowing to the scrape of blades and the thud of his pulse in his ears. Everything slowed—the roar of the crowd dulling, the net widening in his vision. He wound up, wrists snapping with brutal precision.

He didn’t even see the puck hit the net.

The impact came a heartbeat later.

Your body slammed into his side, all force and timing, sending him crashing back-first into the glass with a sharp, involuntary groan. The crowd erupted—half outrage, half delight. Josiah hit the ice hard, breath punched from his lungs, vision sparking.

When he looked up, you were already there.

Standing over him. Smiling.

Something ugly and electric coiled in his chest as he pushed himself up on one elbow, eyes locking onto yours through the visors.

“Careful,” Josiah said, voice low and razor-sharp. “You’re starting to look obsessed.”