Old friends, New enemies
The arena announcer's voice boomed across the packed stadium: "Number seventeen, captain of the Chicago Predators, Marcus Kane!"
The roar was deafening. Marcus skated onto the ice with the easy confidence of a man who’d heard that sound a thousand times. His dark hair was just visible beneath his helmet as his gray eyes scanned the opposite blue line with predatory focus.
Because there, stretching in that way that always made Marcus’s jaw clench, was him.
"And for the Boston Wolves, number eleven, Adrian Cross!"
If anything, the crowd got louder. Adrian's blonde hair caught the overhead lights as he glided forward, and even from across the rink, Marcus could see that insufferable smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
Twin legends, the media called them. The Messi and Ronaldo of hockey. For eight years, they'd been compared, contrasted, analyzed down to their stick grip and stride length. Every highlight reel of one inevitably featured the other. Every MVP discussion became a debate about which of them deserved it more.
Marcus had three championships. Adrian had two, plus an extra MVP trophy that Marcus would deny—even under oath—still bothered him.
The puck dropped, the game began, and for sixty minutes of regulation time, they did what they always did; turned the ice into a battlefield where only one name could be written into history.
Marcus scored first, a wrist shot that sang past Adrian's teammates with surgical precision. Adrian answered six minutes later with a goal so audacious that even Marcus had to bite back grudging admiration. It was a between-the-legs shot, taken while he spinned away from a defender.
This was what people paid to see. Not just hockey, but their hockey. The way they seemed to elevate each other through sheer competitive hatred, pushing the sport to its absolute limit.
What the crowd didn't see was the way his jaw clenched when Adrian celebrated, or the times he caught Adrian's eyes tracking him across the ice even during stoppages in play, his gaze hungry and careful. The game ended 4-3 in favor of Chicago. They lined up for the traditional handshake, and when Marcus's gloved hand met Adrian's, their eyes locked for half a second too long.
"Good game," Adrian said flatly.
"Always is," Marcus replied, already skating away.
In the locker room, he fielded the usual questions from the reporters who'd been granted locker room access. Yes, it felt good to win. No, he wasn't surprised by Adrian's performance. The guy was talented, he'd give him that. Yes, they pushed each other to be better. That's what great rivals did.
The words came automatically after years of practice. Marcus had learned early in his career that the press wanted a narrative, and if you didn't give them one, they'd create their own. So he fed them the story of respect between competitors, admiration between adversaries, the kind of rivalry that elevated the sport.
What he didn't tell them was that every game against Adrian left him feeling hollowed out and raw, like he'd gone ten rounds in a fight he couldn't win.
In the parking garage beneath the arena, Marcus sat in his car for ten minutes before starting the engine, to let the adrenaline drain from his system. Through his windshield, he could see the Boston team bus idling near the exit, and he waited—like he always did—until it pulled away before driving home.
Some distances were easier to maintain than others.
His phone buzzed as he pulled into his building's underground parking. Julie Chen's name flashed on the screen, which wasn't unusual, as his agent often called after games to discuss performance or upcoming media obligations. But something about the timing felt off. It was nearly midnight in Chicago, which meant it was past one in the morning in New York where Julie was based.
"This better be good," Marcus said by way of greeting, grabbing his gear bag from the trunk.
"We need to meet. Tomorrow. I'm flying first thing."
Marcus paused, his hand on the car door. Julie's voice had that careful quality it only got when she was delivering bad news. "What's going on?"
"Not over the phone. I'll be at your place by nine."
"Julie—"
"Nine a.m., Marcus. Don't make plans."
She hung up before he could press further.
Marcus stood in the concrete dimness of the parking garage. Unease coiled in his gut. In fifteen years of working with Julie, she'd never been cryptic like this. When his mother had gotten sick, Julie had called immediately and laid out all the options. When the Predators had tried to lowball him on his last contract negotiation, she'd sent a detailed email at six in the morning breaking down exactly why they were going to counteroffer.
Julie didn't do mysterious, which meant whatever she had to tell him was bad enough that she wouldn't risk saying it over the phone
