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Two minutes left. London dekes around a defender and beelines for me, eyes blazing with defiance. This is it. The pivotal play to determine who reigns supreme today.
He feints left and at the last second crosses right, trying to fake me out again. But he forgets—I've got his number memorized. I mirror him, block his path, and just like that, the puck is mine. I take off, his enraged shouts chasing me across the ice to where Tris waits by the goal, stick poised for a one-timer pass.
London comes out of nowhere, angling straight for me. I should pass to Tris now, take the easy shot, but fury blinds me. I want to beat London on my terms, prove once and for all that he's out of his league challenging me.
I wind up for a slapshot just as London rams into me from behind. My knees buckle as pain ricochets through my ribs. The puck slides away as we crash to the ice in a tangle of limbs and curses.
Whistles blow and I'm dimly aware of Deck and the refs rushing over to pull London off me. He tries to throw another punch, but Deck holds him back, shaking his head in warning. London wrenches free, lips peeled in a feral sneer.
"That's right, hide behind your team like always," he spits.
My temper snaps. Lunging to my feet, I grab a fistful of his jersey, our helmets smacking together again. "You wanna go? Let's go right now!"
"Enough!" The ref forces his way between us. "Get to your benches, both of you!"
"This isn't over, Lancaster," I snarl as Deck drags me away. Adrenaline and rage still pulse through me.
London doesn't even look at me, just scoops up his fallen stick and skates for the bench. But I see the dangerous glint in his eyes, the tightness of his shoulders. This rivalry is far from settled.
We ended up tying, to no one's satisfaction. I'm still seething as I sit in the locker room, replaying each checked, stolen puck, and collision.
"I really thought you had it for a second there," Tris says, dropping next to me with a sigh. "Man, what a game."
I just grunt in response, jaw clenched.
Deck grabs his gear and comes over, his expression sober. "Things got heated out there today."
"Is that what we’re calling it?" Tris snorts. "Did you see Riot and London at each other's throats? Looked ready to drop gloves right on the blue line."
I cross my arms. "He was out of line. You both saw it."
"Yeah, he was relentless," Eli agrees in his measured way. "But stooping to his level only feeds the rivalry more."
I bristle at the implication. "So what, I should've just stood there and taken his hits?"
"No one's saying that." Deck holds my gaze, his captain's composure cracking slightly. "But you're better than him, Riot. Don't let Lancaster drag you into the gutter. Eyes on the goal, remember?"
I know he's right, but admitting it grates at me. Tris seems to sense my darkening mood and jumps in, clapping a hand on my back.
"Forget about him," he says bracingly. "We've got regionals coming up and a championship to defend. Leave Lancaster in the rearview where he belongs."
I take a deep breath, feelings marginally back under control. Deck's right—I can't lose sight of what matters because of some street punk with a chip on his shoulder.
But even as I repeat those thoughts, an image of piercing hazel eyes and a cocky grin flashes across my mind. I shove it away ruthlessly. I can't afford distractions, no matter how infuriatingly persistent.
"Let's get out of here," I mutter, reaching for my bags. As I leave the locker room, muscles aching and knuckles still stinging from blows traded, my mind churns with unanswered questions. London got under my skin today worse than ever before, and I still can't pinpoint why. All I know is I want—no, need—to wipe that smug look off his face next time.
Because there will be a next time. Our paths are like two rivers that are destined to merge and crash until one of them finally overwhelms the other. I don't plan on being the one who cracks first.
My sole focus now is to break him, no matter what it takes. After today, it's not just about skill anymore. It's personal.
The rivalry's only just begun.
2
LONDON
Steppingthrough the wrought-iron gates of Hollowgate University, I'm hit with a wave of first day jitters—and I'm not even a damn freshman. Transfers don't usually get butterflies, but most transfers aren't walking into enemy territory, either.
