Rivals on ice: the bet is on

Theodore

"CALLAHAN! CALLAHAN! CALLAHAN!"

Three years of hearing my name chanted in this arena and it still hit different every time.

Almost there.

Two minutes on the clock, tied game, and I could feel the win in my chest building up. This was mine. It had always been mine and all I had to do was take it.

“Move!” He zoomed past me.

Prick. I was hot on his heels.

That was the thing about Elijah Voss though. He never looked like he was trying.

That was what drove me insane. Three years of playing against this man and every single time, he moved across the ice it was a fucking ballroom while I was out here bleeding through my jersey for every single point.

I hated him. But like a pest, he got under my skin and refused to leave.

"Callahan, left side!" Carson's voice cut through the crowd noise.

I adjusted quickly, muscle memory kicking in before I had fully processed what he said. My eyes trained on the puck

The arena was deafening.

“CALLAHAN!”

“VOSS!”

The tension was at its peak. Our team colors were on two thirds of the seats, their bodies setting fire in my heart

This was our house. Our ice. And I had spent the last fifty minutes making sure Voss and his perfectly composed face understood that.

"Close him out!" Coach Hartley's voice from the bench. "Don't give them space!"

I didn't need to be told. I'd been closing Voss out all night — or trying to. The man had a way of being exactly where you didn't want him to be.

I spotted him now across the ice, repositioning. His head was down, stick handling, and one of his teammates was calling for it on the right. He looked like he was about to hit right but I'd watched enough of Voss to know when you can predict his move then that's not what he's actually doing.

I pushed off hard and cut left instead.

The puck went left.

I was already there.

Mine!

For about four seconds I felt like God.

"CALLAHAN—" The crowd erupted and I was already moving, breakaway, forty feet between me and the goal with nothing but open ice and a goalkeeper who'd been shaky all night —

The hit came from nowhere.

Or not nowhere. It came from Voss.

My teeth rattled as he rammed into my shoulder with a clean hit designed to rearrange my skeleton. The puck skittered away. My stick caught the board wrong on the way down and I heard it before I felt it as a loud crack filled my ears and then I was looking at two pieces of wood where one used to be.

The crowd noise roared.

The buzzer flared.

All I could hear was the crack all over again, on my knees looking down at my loss.

"No no no—" Carson skated over, voice cutting through the ringing in my ears. "Ref! That was—"

"Legal." The referee didn't even look sympathetic.

“I lost…”

I got up slowly. My shoulder was singing. The broken stick was still in my hand and I held both halves like maybe if I stood here long enough the last thirty seconds would change themselves into something different.

They didn't.

We lost. Three to two. On home ice. To Elijah Voss.

I skated off without looking at anyone.

***

The locker room was quiet as it rarely was after a loss.

The next thing it was filled with gear hitting benches as Prieto, out left, threw his water bottle at the locker.

“FUCKING HELL!” he had no chill these days

"That was ours." Carson dropped onto the bench next to me, helmet off, jaw tight. "That game was ours, Theo."

"I know." Don't remind me.

"If the ref had just—"

"Carson."

He stopped.

Around us the team was still grieving, throwing stuff around. Prieto muttered underneath his breath. Our rookie, Jaylen, sat with his head in his hands like it was his fault, which it wasn't, but rookies always did that. Coach Hartley stood in the doorway for a moment, looked at all of us, and said nothing before leaving.

"Voss got lucky." Carson continued.

"Voss has never gotten lucky in his life," I said, and then immediately wanted to take it back because of the way Carson looked at me.

"That's a weird thing to say about someone you hate."

"I'm just being realistic." I pulled my jersey over my head. "I know my enemy."

“If you say so…” he was still skeptical but dropped it.

After that the conversation moved on between him and other player while I sat there thinking about the real reason why my chest felt heavy and nobody in this room could ever know why.

Because yes, I was furious about the game, the hit, the stick and the fact that Voss had stood on our ice and taken victory from us in front of our crowd.

But underneath that, was a secret I had hoped would remain buried forever.

Six weeks ago, in the back of a bar three blocks from here, I had shaken Elijah Voss's hand on a bet.

If I lost tonight, I was his. Whatever that meant, whatever he decided it meant, on his terms and his timeline.

And if he lost he'd have to admit that I was better than him in front of everyone.

Six weeks ago the thought of him winning had seemed impossible so it had seemed fine.

It was not fine.

I was totally fucked.

"Callahan." Coach Hartley appeared at the door. "Good game."

I looked up.

"You played well," he said. "Sometimes you play well and still lose. That's hockey."

"Yeah." My voice came out even. I was grateful for that.

He nodded and left. Carson clapped me on the shoulder and stood to deal with his own gear. The room emptied gradually after they showered and changed.

Carson left with Reeves, something about food. I said no. Jaylen lingered, clearly wanting to say something, and I told him to go home and sleep, which he did.

“Guys,” I called out as they were almost gone.

They turned. “It'll be okay by Monday. This was just one game and not the end of the world.”

It was the end of mine.

They smiled.

“Thanks, captain!”

Finally, I was alone.

“You've got this, Callahan.” I told myself, finally taking off my gear.

Monday I'd be back. I'd be better. That was the only narrative available to me.

Then the lights in the main room cut to half and I heard, from somewhere behind me, the soft sound of a door.

I didn't turn around.

I knew it was him without turning around. I had memorized his signature scent a long time ago. My body tensed.

He stepped into my eyesight and there was Elijah Voss, jacket on, hands in his pockets, looking at me the same way he'd looked at me from the ice.

Unsurprised and prepared.

I stared at him with hate burning in my eyes.

"Don't look at me like that, Captain."

He moved closer, shrinking the distance between us as he lowered his head, his breath grazing my ear, and when he spoke his voice was low and teasing.

"A deal is a deal, Captain. Tonight… you belong to me.”