Rink Rivals

John Logan was having a perfectly fine morning—until he walked into the campus coffee shop and saw him.

The guy was lean, with sharp cheekbones and a smirk that instantly grated on Logan’s nerves. He was wearing a Briar University hoodie. Not just any Briar hoodie—the same exact shade of crimson that their hockey team wore. And he was standing at the counter, chatting up the barista like he owned the place.

Logan’s jaw tightened. He’d heard about the transfer student—Dylan Chase, a hotshot forward from a rival program. Word was he’d chosen Briar because he wanted to “bring some real competition” to the team. As if the Bulldogs needed that. As if Logan wasn’t already the top scorer.

He got in line, trying to ignore the guy, but his gaze kept drifting. Dylan turned, caught him staring, and that smirk widened. “You must be Logan. Heard you’re the big man on campus.”

“And you’re the guy who couldn’t make it in the pros,” Logan shot back.

Dylan laughed—a warm, annoying sound. “Ouch. I see the rumors about your charm are true.” He grabbed his coffee and walked past, brushing Logan’s shoulder just a little too close. Logan smelled mint and something else. Cinnamon, maybe. He shook his head and ordered his black coffee, pissed that his heart was beating a little faster.

The rivalry escalated from there. At practice, Dylan challenged every drill, chirping Logan from the bench. Logan responded by checking him harder than necessary. Coach Harris warned them both to cool it, but there was a glint in his eye—he knew competitive fire was good for the team.

Off the ice, it got worse. They were paired for a history project—of course they were—and every meeting turned into a verbal sparring match. Logan hated how Dylan always had a comeback, how he never got rattled. Hated how Dylan’s eyes crinkled when he laughed. Hated how he kept noticing those eyes were green, like sea glass.

One afternoon, they were in the library, pretending to work. Dylan was doodling a cartoon of a grumpy bulldog that looked suspiciously like Logan. “Very mature,” Logan said.

“I’m a visionary.” Dylan pushed the sketch toward him. “See? That’s you, pouting because I scored a hat trick.”

“You didn’t score a hat trick. You got lucky.”

“Lucky? Baby, I’m all skill.”

Logan’s grip tightened on his pen. “Don’t call me baby.”

“Why? Does it make you flustered?” Dylan leaned in, his voice dropping. “Because you’re turning a little red, Logan.”

His face was close. Logan could see the faint freckles dusting his nose. He wanted to punch him. Or kiss him. The realization hit like a slap.

He stood up, chair scraping. “I’m done for today.”

“Running away?” Dylan called after him.

“Strategic retreat,” Logan muttered, but his ears were burning.

The next week, they had an away game against a tough team. In the third period, Logan took a bad hit and went down hard. His knee screamed, but he forced himself up. Dylan was the first one to his side, hand on his shoulder. “You okay?” His voice was stripped of all sarcasm.

Logan nodded, shoving him off. “I’m fine.”

The rest of the game, Dylan played like a man possessed, laying out hits and scoring the game-winner. When the horn sounded, he didn’t celebrate with the team. He skated straight to Logan, pulled off his helmet, and said, “That one was for you.”

Something in Logan’s chest cracked open.

That night, back at the hotel, there was a knock on his door. Dylan stood there, hair still damp, holding two beers. “Truce?” he said, offering one.

Logan took it. “Truce.”

They sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders almost touching. The silence was awkward, charged. Finally, Dylan said, “I don’t actually hate you, you know.”

“I know.” Logan took a long drink. “I don’t hate you either.”

“Good.” Dylan shifted, and their knees brushed. “Because I kind of want to kiss you, and that would be weird if you hated me.”

Logan choked on his beer. “What?”

Dylan grinned, that infuriating, wonderful grin. “You heard me.”

He leaned in, slow enough for Logan to pull away. Logan didn’t. Their lips met, tentative at first, then deeper. Dylan tasted like beer and the mint he always chewed. Logan’s fingers found his hair, soft and damp.

When they broke apart, Dylan rested his forehead against Logan’s. “So, I guess we’re not enemies anymore?”

“Guess not,” Logan said, and for the first time in weeks, he smiled.

They stayed up all night, talking and laughing—and maybe doing more than talking. The next morning, Logan woke to Dylan’s arm thrown across his chest. He didn’t move. He just watched the sunrise creep through the curtains and thought that maybe rivals weren’t so bad after all.