THE 4th CHAPTER - THE PULL

"Defeat is inevitable for it is a part of life. But the lesson we learned in that is a priceless treasure we can grasp and something that can be useful as we go on in our lives."

"Soulmates, is that even real? This pull that we can feel with someone is it fate?"

<<<>>>

“Fuck you, kid! Don’t make me look bad!” O’Connor shouted, slamming a Volkov defender into the boards.

“Thanks, asshole,” Lian muttered.

“Skate your fucking ass, Kensington!” Carter barked, fire flaring.

Volkov ran a coordinated powerplay. Zharov slipped past Tanaka, Kuznetsov flanked Kensington, and Demidov controlled the puck with deadly efficiency. Vasiliev and Ivanov ran attack coordination; Sokolov and Lebedev covered the lines, while Morozov's defense kept Lian in check.

Another deft flick of the puck, another feint, and Viktor Petrov's glove was beaten. In Denver, Moscow had come and claimed the win on neutral territory as Lian's frustration became palpable.

The announcer roared.

“WHAT. A. MATCH! Volkov Ice Dynasty edges out the Frost Titans! Strategy, discipline, and precise execution triumph! Kensington and Demidov, the seeds of a legendary rivalry are sown tonight! How does Kensington team feel losing on his own country’s home ice?”

Kensinton was leaning against the boards, his chest heaving. Carter muttered, slamming his hand against the boards, the fire flickering weakly.

“He’s not even magical, and yet. fuck, he makes it feel like we’re chasing ghosts!”

O'Connor grinned. "What we can do, we lost and on home ice. Fuck! We'll win next time."

"Yup," Carted said, agreeing. "What happened earlier? You seem distracted and you've never been this distracted on the ice."

Kensignton took a look at them. "Nothing. I was just worked up that's all."

Tanaka then joined in with their other teammates. “Don’t sweat it Kensington, we will definitely win next time.”

Across the rink, Demidov's line, Vasiliev, Ivanov, Zharov, Sokolov, Kuznetsov exchanged subtle nods to Morozov and Petrov. His eyes flicked to Kensington repeatedly. And looking at him something inside him wanted to go there to check on him and that’s fucking insane considering they just met, as enemies on icell. The ARC representative announced compliance: magic usage within limits, environmental effects stabilized.

The announcer's voice echoed across the Arena

“Ladies and gentlemen! What a first encounter! Frost Titans and Volkov Ice Dynasty! Magic, skill, strategy, and sparks, elemental and personal set the stage for a historic rivalry!”

Kensington groaned. "History? Fuck that. I want a rematch."

O'Connor grinned. "Next time, you. We'll figure out how to defeat the bloody Russians if ever we are up against them."

The pull between Kensington and Demidov hummed even as the players exited. Denver had seen Moscow's triumph, but the fire, ice, and tension that lay between Kensington and Demidov were far from being over,

The arena emptied in layers, starting with the fans, first loud and buzzing then the staff peeling away wards and turning down the enchanted lights until the ice was scarred and dull beneath the ceiling. What was left in its wake was the echo of skates, ozone and burnt magic, and restless silence that came after a loss that still hadn't sat.

Sweat and annoyance swirled in the air in the Frost Titans' locker room.

Unnecessary helmets hit the floor harder.

“Jesus Christ,” O’Connor snarled, tearing off his gloves and flinging them into his stall. “I hate Russians.”

“You hate losing,” Santos spoke, leaning his back against the bench, water dancing weakly over his knuckles before he firmly forced it down. “Don’t confuse the two.”

“Same fucking thing.” O’Connor shot back.

Lian Kensington sat on the bench, elbows braced against his knees, staring at the floor like it might explain something if he looked hard enough. His skates were still on. He hadn't moved since the horn.

The unreadable face of Tanaka watched him from across the room. Bishop muttered something inaudibly under his breath about defensive spacing. Mitchell slammed a water bottle shut a little too hard.

At first, Coach Dominic, Kensinton's father said nothing.

That silence was worse than yelling.

“You didn’t lose because of magic,” Dominic said finally, his voice even and cutting. “You didn’t lose because of refs or rules or the ARC breathing down your necks. You lost because you hesitated.”

His gaze fell right on Kensington.

“And you,” he added, his voice controlled, “may do the same without reserve.”

Slowly, Kensington looked up. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” Dominic cut in. “Three times in the third period. You saw an opening, and instead of taking it, you second-guessed yourself.”

O'Connor scowled. "I thought-"

“I don’t care what you thought,” Dominic said. “I care what I saw.”

The room fell silent once more.

Carter shifted, lowering his voice. “You okay, Kensinton?”

Lian opened his mouth but nothing came out.

He closed it again, his jaw tightening.

“I’m fine,” he said finally. “Just… didn’t expect him to move like that.”

O'Connor snorted. "Yeah, well, neither did anyone else. Bastard plays like he's already seen the future."

That wasn't it, Kensington thought. Demidov hadn’t moved right, either.

He'd felt… familiar.

And every time their paths crossed, something under Lian's ribs tightened, like his body reacting faster than his mind could keep up with. A pull, insistent and subtle, tugging his attention from plays he'd executed a thousand times before. And.....he hated it, somehow...

Across the arena, in the locker room of the Volkov Ice Dynasty, celebration was quiet but no less fierce.

Vasiliev popped the cap off a bottle and took a long drink. “American crowd didn’t like that,” he said, grinning. “You could hear them die inside.”

Ivanov laughed. “Good. Let them.”

Sokolov leaned back against the lockers. “Kensington’s fast. Too fast for comfort.”

Zharov shrugged. “Fast doesn’t win games.”

Demidov sat aside, unfastening his skates in measured tones. Accurate and controlled, just like on ice. Except his pulse hadn't slowed and it annoyed him. He pressed his thumb into his palm, grounding himself. He didn't believe in distractions. Didn't believe in superstition, fate, or whatever nonsense people liked to pin on elite players.