Falling for my Brother’s Rival

Old Wounds, New Locker Room

Noah’s Pov

Walking through the doors of the Hawks’ training facility felt like stepping into enemy territory I had spent a decade trying to conquer, except now I was expected to call it home, and every part of me resisted the idea even as my legs kept moving forward because there was no version of this where I got to turn around.

The hallway smelled like every other rink I had ever played in, ice and rubber and the faint sting of disinfectant, and yet nothing about it felt familiar, because for years this building had represented everything I fought against every single season.

Reporters had been shouting questions outside for nearly twenty minutes before security finally cleared a path, and even now I could still hear faint echoes of their voices bouncing off the concrete walls behind me, asking the same question over and over in a dozen different ways, wanting to know how it felt to become a Hawk, wanting to know if I had spoken to Mason yet, wanting a reaction they could turn into tomorrow’s headline.

I hadn’t given them one.

Ethan walked beside me, scanning the hallway with the kind of alertness that made him good at his job, though even he seemed unusually quiet, as though he understood that nothing he said right now would make this easier.

“You ready for this?” he finally asked.

“Does it matter?”

“Not really. Just wanted to hear you say something other than silence.”

I almost smiled, but the expression died somewhere before it reached my mouth, because up ahead, through the glass doors leading into the main locker room, I could already see him.

Mason Blake stood near his stall, arms folded across his chest, talking quietly with one of the assistant coaches, and even from this distance I could feel the tension radiating off him, the same tension that had defined every encounter we’d shared for the better part of ten years.

He looked up the moment I stepped through the doorway, and the entire room seemed to shift, conversations dimming into an uneasy hush as players who had spent their whole careers watching us collide on opposite sides of the ice suddenly found themselves waiting to see what would happen when we stood on the same one.

Neither of us spoke at first.

Mason’s expression gave nothing away, the same controlled calm he wore during every postgame interview, the kind that made reporters believe he was unbothered even when everyone who actually knew him understood exactly how much he was holding back.

“Steele,” he finally said, his voice flat, almost professional, as though greeting someone he barely tolerated rather than the man he’d spent a decade despising.

“Blake.”

That was it. That was the entire exchange, and somehow it felt heavier than every heated confrontation we’d ever had on the ice, because there was nowhere left to direct the anger, no boards to slam each other into, no whistle that would eventually separate us and send us back to our own benches.

Coach Reynolds appeared a moment later, clapping his hands together with forced enthusiasm as he addressed the room. “Alright, let’s get moving. Steele, you’re in the stall next to Carter. Let’s get through introductions and hit the ice in twenty.”

The room slowly returned to its normal rhythm, players drifting back into their own conversations, though I could feel curious glances following me as I made my way toward my assigned stall, which, as luck would have it, sat only a few feet from Mason’s.

Liam Carter, who I recognized instantly from years of watching game footage, looked up as I approached and extended a hand. “Welcome to the circus.”

I shook it. “Appreciate the warm welcome.”

“Don’t get used to it. Half this room still isn’t sure what to make of you being here.”

“And the other half?”

He grinned. “Betting on how long before you and Blake throw hands in practice.”

I glanced toward Mason, who was deliberately avoiding my direction while lacing up his skates with far more focus than the task required. “That obvious?”

“Everyone in this city has been waiting for this moment for years. Nobody expected it to actually happen.”

Neither had I, if I was being honest, though admitting that out loud felt like handing someone a weapon they could use against me.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of introductions, playbook reviews, and drills that forced Mason and me to share the same ice for the first time as teammates rather than opponents, and every single second of it felt unnatural, like wearing a jersey that belonged to someone else.

During a passing drill, the puck slid toward me at an awkward angle, and instinctively I redirected it toward Mason, who caught it cleanly before sending it back without acknowledgment, without hesitation, without anything beyond the bare mechanics required to keep the drill moving.

It should have felt like progress. Instead it felt like two strangers performing a routine neither of them believed in.

By the time practice ended, my legs ached less from exertion than from the tension I had been carrying since the moment I walked through those doors, and as I peeled off my gear, I noticed Mason lingering near the exit, clearly debating whether to say something before he left.

Eventually he did.

“This doesn’t mean anything’s changed between us,” he said, his voice low enough that no one else could hear.

“I never assumed it would.”

“Then we understand each other.”

“We always have. That’s never been the problem.”

Something flickered across his face, gone before I could name it, and for a brief moment I thought he might say more, but instead he turned and walked away, leaving me standing alone in a locker room that didn’t feel like mine and probably never would.

I thought about Sophia then, unable to help it, wondering what she would think if she could see the two of us standing three feet apart and still somehow farther away from peace than we’d ever been, and wondering, not for the first time, how much longer either of us could keep pretending the past didn’t still control every move we made in the present.