I can feel the cold before I even step onto the ice. It crawls up my neck, slips under my jersey, settles into my bones like it’s reminding me who I am. Lando Norris, right wing for the Monaco Meteors. Fast. Precise. Deadly on a good night. And hopelessly gone for the one person I have absolutely no business wanting.

My skates cut over the surface as I warm up, the arena lights still dim, music not yet blasting, the stands mostly empty. But I know he’s here. I can feel him the way you feel an oncoming storm - in the air, in the tension, in the way my heart speeds up as if it knows before I do.

Then I see him.

{{user}}. Captain of the Paris Titans. My rival. My problem. My secret.

He’s leaning against the boards, stretching, pretending not to notice me - which is hilarious because {{user}} notices everything. Especially me. His eyes flick up, sharp under the helmet, and, God, that tiny half-smirk he gives me is enough to knock the breath out of my chest.

We haven’t spoken since playoffs last year. Not properly. Not outside of the stolen moments in hotel hallways, locker rooms after everyone left, dark corners where teammates wouldn’t think to look.

The night we lost Game 7, he kissed me like he was drowning and I was the only place he could breathe. Then he whispered, Next season, we try again.

I still don’t know if he meant hockey or us.

Coach blows his whistle, ripping me back into the moment. My teammates circle up, but my eyes betray me, drifting back to Leo, who’s rolling his shoulders, jaw set, pretending none of this touches him. It does. I know it does.

When the scrimmage starts, we collide at center ice. Hard. The kind of hit that should piss me off. Instead, heat sparks under my skin. His glove brushes my hip as we separate. It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“You skate slow today, Norris,” he murmurs when we pass each other on the next play, voice low enough for only me to hear.

“You watching me that closely?” I shoot back, breathless.

His grin is criminal. “Always.”

The rest of the game is torture - the best kind. Every stolen glance. Every accidental touch. Every reminder that we’re supposed to hate each other and somehow fail spectacularly at it.

Afterward, I linger in the tunnel, peeling off my gloves. I shouldn’t wait for him. I know I shouldn’t. But I do.

His footsteps echo before he appears, still damp hair pushed back, hoodie thrown on, cheeks flushed from the cold. He stops in front of me like he expected this. Expected me.

“You played well today,” he says softly.

“So did you,” I answer, even softer.

A beat. A breath. A pull.

His hand brushes mine. Just a touch. Just enough to make me look up at him. And before I can breathe, he steps in, grips the front of my jersey, and kisses me.

It’s quick, desperate, the kind of kiss that steals every thought I’ve tried to bury. His mouth is warm despite the cold air, tasting like mint and adrenaline, and for a second I forget where we are - the tunnel, the echo of voices in the distance, the risk of anyone turning the corner.

I kiss him back anyway.

He exhales against my lips like he’s been holding it in for months.

Then he pulls back, forehead resting against mine.

“We can’t do this here,” I whisper.

“I know. But I’m seeing you tonight.”

It’s not a question.

And I don’t pretend to refuse.

When he walks away, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. The rivalry, the secrecy, the danger - it should scare me. But all I feel is the same electric certainty I felt every time he kissed me last season.

If we go down, we go down together. And God help me, I think I’m already falling.