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1
RIOT
The chillin the air cuts through my jersey as I step onto the ice, but it's the electricity of the crowd that raises the hairs on my arms. This is it. Ravenloft versus Hollowgate. The rivalry of the decade, with scouts and fans packed into the stands for one reason—to see us go head to head.
Me and him. Riot Kensington versus London Lancaster.
I take a slow lap around the rink, breathing in the cold, crisp air. My teammates are a blur of color in my periphery, but my focus narrows to the one figure in black and gold across the ice—number seventeen, London.
We've got history, him and me. Started as soon as he stepped foot on the ice freshman year. Cocky bastard came in with his backwards hats and flashy playing style, acting like he owned the damn rink. Me, the treasured Hollowgate U legacy, versus him, the Ravenloft street rat—we were destined to butt heads.
Three years of college. Three years of grueling face-offs and post-game taunts. Three years of our schools trading championships and bragging rights. The rivalry between us never changed, always simmering and ready to explode when we faced off on the ice.
There's just something about him that gets under my skin and lingers there like a splinter I can't cut out. That smug grin when he pulls off some reckless move. The nonchalant way he brushes me off when I call him out. How he turns everything into a spectacle, never just playing the game. It's infuriating.
He doesn't belong here. Can't handle discipline or respect tradition. He's all flash, no substance. At least that's what I keep telling myself.
But damn if he isn't talented. Gotta give the bastard that.
I tear my eyes away and focus on my teammates, giving them final words of motivation before we take position. Tris claps me on the back, his eyes bright with that pre-game high he lives for. Eli gives me a silent nod, his calm presence grounding me. And Deck, steady and reliable as always, meets my gaze.
"Let's show 'em how real champions play," he says.
I smirk. "Wouldn't have it any other way."
We break and I make my way to the center line, pulses of adrenaline surging through me. The crowd noise fades away as I stare down at the dark circle on the ice, the first of many I'll battle for today. Seconds later, a shadow falls over it and I don't need to look up to know who it is. I can feel his presence like electricity up my spine.
"Ready to be put in your place, Kensington?" London's deep voice cuts through the tension between us, his words frosted with antagonism.
I lift my gaze, ice-blue eyes meeting fiery hazel. "The only one who's gonna be put in their place today is you."
The referee drops the puck without warning and we collide, two forces of nature bent on destroying the other. I grit my teeth as we grapple, knees bent, shoulders braced. He's quick, I'll give him that, snatching the puck with reflexes honed from years on unforgiving streets.
But I didn't earn my reputation by being weak. I pivot, block him, then we're off, racing and weaving across the ice. The play moves fast, both teams strategizing and reacting with practiced precision. Through it all, the spotlight stays on me and London, cutting and jabbing at each other like swordsmen in a duel.
We know each other's moves, can predict the other's thoughts before they become actions. Every maneuver is designed to expose weakness, gain advantage. He banks left, I counter right. I charge the net, he blocks me with his body. Back and forth we battle, the space between us charged like the calm before a lightning strike.
I lose myself in the game, in the primal thrill of the hunt. My focus narrows to the puck, the ice, and him—always him, hovering at the edge of my vision no matter where I turn. I can feel his frustration building with every play I disrupt, every shot I block.
Good. Let him lose control. I'll be there to put him in his place.
With ten minutes left on the clock, the game is 2-2 and tensions are running high. Both sides are getting aggressive, but the hits between me and London have a sharper edge. He's slipping, that carefully crafted facade of control starting to crack. I can see it in the ferocity of his checks, the way his mouth twists when I steal the puck.
He tries to fake me out with a spin move at the blue line, but I see through it and smash him against the boards. He shoves back hard, our helmets knocking together.
"Getting sloppy, Lancaster," I taunt through gritted teeth.
He presses closer, our faces inches apart. His blond hair is dark with sweat and falling into his eyes. "I'm just getting started, Kensington."
A whistle blows, but we stay locked together a moment longer, breathing hard. His eyes blaze with raw fury and something else I can't quite place. Whatever it is sends an unfamiliar heat curling through me, and I have to force myself not to shiver.
Where the hell did that come from?
I push him off just as Deck skates over, brow creased. "Head in the game, Riot. Eyes on the puck, not the player."
He's right. I need to get my focus back. With a curt nod, I follow Deck back into position, trying to ignore the ghost of London's breath on my neck.
The final minutes are a dizzying frenzy of attacks and defenses. Both sides are getting reckless, throwing everything they have left into breaking the tie. London is everywhere, stealing the puck, elbowing past defenses to take shot after shot. He's a force of nature, and I'm caught in the storm despite my best efforts.
