Championship Aftermath
1088 Words
Championship Aftermath
Chapter 1
The final buzzer still echoed in Kael’s skull like a war drum.
Sweat stung his eyes as he stood under the spray of the locker room shower, palms braced
against the cold tile. Ravens 98, Wolves 95, a three-point miracle in the last eight seconds had
sealed it. His team had roared, lifted him on their shoulders for the cameras, and then spilled
out into the night for victory parties that would last till dawn.
But Kael stayed behind.
The arena above had gone quiet, janitors would be sweeping confetti soon. Down here, in the
visitors’ wing where the losing team had dressed and left in defeat, the air still smelled of
adrenaline and bitter resentment.
He killed the water, dragged a towel over his damp black hair, and walked barefoot across the
tiled floor toward his locker. The championship trophy was already locked away with the
coaching staff. All that remained was the ache in his shoulders and the ghost of Riven’s glare
across the court every single time their eyes had met tonight.
Three f*****g years of this.
Kael yanked open his locker, the metallic clang cutting through the silence. He was pulling on a
black compression shirt when the door to the locker room slammed open.
He heard heavy footsteps that sounded familiar.
“You always were a sore winner, Takahashi.”
The voice hit him like a fast break; low, rough, laced with that signature mocking drawl. Kael
didn’t turn around immediately, he finished tugging the shirt down over his torso, jaw tight.
Riven Vale leaned against the far row of lockers, silver hair still wet and messy from his own
shower, Wolves jersey slung over one broad shoulder. His white tank clung to a chest still
flushed from the game. Muscles corded from years of dominating the paint. He looked exactly
like what he was: a beautiful, arrogant bastard who refused to stay defeated.
“Game’s over, Vale,” Kael said flatly, zipping his duffel. “Go cry somewhere else.”
Riven laughed, but there was no humor in it. He pushed off the lockers and stalked closer,
sneakers squeaking on the damp floor. “Cry? I scored thirty-eight points on your so-called
‘unbreakable’ defense. You had to foul me out of desperation just to stop me from tying it.”
Kael finally turned, at 6'5", he had a couple of inches on Riven, but the Wolves captain had
always made up for it with sheer explosive power. They stood close enough that Kael could
smell the faint scent of Riven’s body wash mixed with lingering sweat.
“And yet,” Kael replied, voice cold, “you still lost again.”
Something dark flashed in Riven’s amber eyes. He stepped even closer, crowding Kael back
against the open locker door, metal rattled.
“You think this is just about tonight?” Riven’s voice dropped. “Three seasons, Takahashi. Every
fucking matchup, you breathing down my neck, calling my plays flashy garbage, acting like
you’re some disciplined monk while I’m the reckless punk. You’ve been in my head since
freshman year.”
Kael’s pulse kicked hard. He could feel the heat rolling off Riven’s body. The locker room
suddenly felt too small, the air too thick.
“You’re the one who started the s**t-talking,” Kael shot back. “Media day, sophomore year, you
looked straight into the camera and said the Ravens only win because they play boring ball.
That I was ‘all structure, no soul.’”
Riven’s mouth twisted. “Because it’s true. You play like a machine that is perfect and controlled.
It pisses me off.”
Their chests were nearly brushing now. Kael could see the rapid rise and fall of Riven’s
breathing, the faint bruise forming along his jaw from an earlier elbow. His own body responded
with a surge of adrenaline that had nothing to do with basketball.
“You hate losing to me that much?” Kael asked, low and challenging.
Riven’s hand shot out, slamming against the locker beside Kael’s head. The sound cracked
through the empty room.
“I don’t hate losing to you,” he growled. “I hate what it does to me, every time you shut me down
on the court, every time you stare at me like I’m beneath you… it makes me want to—”
He cut himself off, breathing hard.
Kael’s hands clenched at his sides. Years of post-game arguments, near-fights in the tunnel,
heated interviews where they tore into each other for the cameras, the press loved it. “Rival
Captains at War.” But no one saw what happened in the quiet moments. The way Kael’s eyes
lingered too long on Riven’s powerful shoulders during warm-ups. The way Riven’s taunts
always carried an edge that felt too personal.
“Say it,” Kael demanded, voice rough. He was tired of pretending.
Riven’s gaze dropped to Kael’s mouth for a split second before snapping back up. “You first,
golden boy. Tell me why you always look like you want to either punch me or—”
Kael moved before he could think.
His hand fisted in the front of Riven’s tank, yanking him the last inch forward. Their mouths
crashed together—hard, angry, inevitable.
It wasn’t gentle.
Riven made a shocked sound against his lips, then surged forward, shoving Kael harder into the
lockers, their teeth clashed. A low groan escaped one of them—Kael wasn’t sure who. The kiss
tasted like salt and fury and three years of buried want. Riven’s hand gripped the back of Kael’s
neck, fingers digging in possessively as he tilted his head and deepened it, tongue sliding
against Kael’s in a way that sent fire racing down his spine.
For one blazing moment, everything else disappeared. The championship, the rivalry, the empty
arena above them. There was only the slick heat of Riven’s mouth, the solid press of his body,
the desperate way they clung to each other like they’d been starving.
Then reality slammed back in.
Kael broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, pushing Riven back half a step. Both of them were
breathing like they’d just run suicides. Riven’s lips were reddened, eyes wide and stormy with
shock and raw hunger.
“What the f**k,” Riven whispered, voice hoarse.
Kael stared at him, chest heaving. His mind reeled, he had just kissed his biggest rival. In a
locker room after everything.
But he didn’t regret it.
Not yet.
- Writer
