Enemies in the Same Jersey

Reed. Cruz. Same line.”

The coach didn’t raise his voice, but it cut through the rink like a blade.

My grip tightened on my stick.

Across the ice, Adrian Cruz froze for half a second before pushing off the boards and skating toward me.

The first practice after the trade.

Of course this would happen.

The arena was closed to the public, but the seats weren’t empty. A few staff members watched from above. Management liked to “observe progress.” Which meant Nolan Pierce was probably somewhere behind the dark glass.

Watching.

Waiting.

Adrian stopped a foot in front of me. Close enough that our skates almost touched.

“Guess we’re stuck,” he said.

His voice was calm, but his eyes weren’t.

“Keep up,” I replied.

A small smirk curved his mouth. “Worried I won’t?”

“I don’t worry.”

That was a lie.

I worried about a lot of things when it came to him.

The coach blew the whistle. “Run the triangle drill. Quick passes. No hesitation.”

We took our spots.

I lined up at the center.

Adrian on the left wing.

Exactly where he used to play when we were nineteen and stupid enough to think nothing could pull us apart.

The puck dropped into play.

I moved first, cutting across the blue line. Adrian kept pace beside me. I could feel him there without looking. The air shifted when he skated near. Like my body still knew his rhythm.

Pass.

I sent the puck to him sharp and fast.

He caught it clean, no fumble. Skated hard down the boards.

Two defenders closed in.

“Cruz!” The coach barked. “Move it!”

Adrian didn’t panic. He never did under pressure. He slid the puck back to me through a narrow gap, trusting I’d be there.

I was.

I shot.

Goal.

The sound of the puck hitting the net echoed.

A few of the guys tapped their sticks against the ice.

Good play.

Too good.

Adrian skated past me without smiling. “Not bad.”

“Try harder next time,” I shot back.

His shoulder brushed mine as he turned.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t an accident either.

Heat shot through me anyway.

We reset.

Again.

This time I drove the puck forward. A defenseman slammed into me near the boards. Hard hit. Legal.

Before I could push back, Adrian was there.

He shoved the defenseman off me with more force than needed.

“Watch it,” Adrian snapped.

The defenseman raised his hands. “Relax. It’s practice.”

Adrian’s jaw flexed. “Then practice skating better.”

I straightened slowly.

“I don’t need saving,” I said under my breath.

He didn’t look at me. “Didn’t do it for you.”

Another lie.

The coach's whistle shrieked. “Focus!”

We lined up again.

The tension on the ice shifted. The guys felt it now.

The rivalry wasn’t just history. It was alive.

The next drill was tighter. Small area scrimmage. Less space. More contact.

Perfect.

The puck came loose near the crease. Adrian and I both lunged for it at the same time.

We collided.

Hard.

His chest slammed into mine. Our skates tangled. For one second, we were pressed together, fighting for balance.

His hand shot out, gripping my waist to steady himself.

My breath left me.

His face was inches from mine. Visor tilted. Eyes dark and sharp.

“Still can’t stay on your feet?” he muttered.

I could feel his breath through the cage of my helmet.

“Maybe you’re in my way.”

“Or maybe,” he said softly, “you like being this close.”

My stomach flipped.

I shoved him back harder than needed and took the puck.

“Dream on.”

But my voice came out rough.

We kept playing, but something had shifted.

Every pass felt loaded.

Every glance lasted a second too long.

He checked me into the boards later, pinning me there as we fought for control.

His body pressed against mine. Solid. Warm even through layers of gear.

“Move,” I growled.

“Make me.”

His thigh blocked mine. His stick hooked around my blade.

We were breathing hard, and it had nothing to do with the drill.

“Get a room!” someone shouted from across the ice.

Laughter followed.

Adrian pulled back first, shoving off like it meant nothing.

But his ears were red.

So were mine.

The scrimmage ended with a tie.

The coach didn’t look pleased.

“Again,” he ordered. “Reed, Cruz, you’re not reading each other right.”

We weren’t reading each other?

That was the problem.

We read each other too well.

I knew when he was about to cut left before his skates shifted.

He knew when I would fake a shot and pass instead.

That kind of instinct didn’t come from practice.

It came from nights spent studying each other in ways that had nothing to do with hockey.

The puck dropped again.

This time, I didn’t think so.

I just moved.

Adrian mirrored me perfectly.

We sliced through the defense like we’d never stopped playing side by side.

Pass.

Return.

Spin.

Shot.

Goal.

Clean. Sharp. Unstoppable.

The rink went quiet for half a second before the guys started swearing under their breath.

Because they saw it now.

Chemistry.

The coach blew the whistle slowly.

He skated toward us, eyes narrow. “That,” he said, “is what I want.”

I pulled off my helmet, trying to cool down.

Adrian did the same.

Sweat dampened his hair. His chest rose and fell fast.

The coach looked between us.

“You two will start Saturday. Same line.”

The words hung heavy.

A few teammates shifted uncomfortably.

One of them muttered, “This should be fun.”

Adrian’s gaze locked on mine.

“Are you serious?” he asked Coach.

“Dead serious,” Coach replied. “Your numbers together just beat every other combo on this team. I don’t care about your history. I care about wins.”

History.

Like it was just a bad stat.

The coach skated off, leaving us there.

The ice suddenly felt smaller.

“Are you good with that?” Adrian asked quietly.

I met his stare.

“Does it matter?”

“It might.”

The honesty in his voice caught me off guard.

Before I could answer, one of the rookies skated past and bumped Adrian’s shoulder.

“Didn’t know enemies could look that in sync,” he said with a grin.

Adrian didn’t laugh.

“Who said we’re enemies?” he replied.

The rookie blinked. “Uh… the whole league?”

Adrian’s eyes flicked to me again.

“The League doesn’t know everything,” he said.

The rookie skated off, confused.

I stepped closer to Adrian, lowering my voice.

“What are we, then?”

His expression shifted. Less teasing. More raw.

“You tell me, Captain.”

Captain.

He only used that word when he wanted distance.

Or when he wanted to remind me of it.

I swallowed.

“We’re teammates,” I said.

“And before that?”

There it was.

The crack in the ice.

The thing we kept skating around.

I looked away first.

“That doesn’t matter.”

He let out a slow breath. “It matters to me.”

My chest tightened.

“Why?” I asked. “You walked away.”

His head snapped toward me. “You really believe that?”

“That’s what happened.”

“No,” he said, voice low and fierce. “That’s what you saw.”

Footsteps echoed as Coach returned.

“Enough talking,” he called out. “Hit the showers. And get used to each other. You’re stuck.”

Stuck.

Adrian held my gaze a second longer.

Then he leaned in close, close enough that no one else could hear.

“Competition isn’t why we play so well together,” he murmured.

My pulse thudded.

“Then what is?” I asked before I could stop myself.

His eyes dropped briefly to my mouth, then back up.

“You know exactly what it is.”

He pulled away before I could respond.

Left me standing there on the ice, heart pounding harder than it had all practice.

Teammates kept throwing us looks as we skated off.

They sensed it.

The edge.

The heat.

What they didn’t know was that this wasn’t just rivalry.

It was history.

It was unfinished.

And now we were forced into the same jersey, the same line, the same battles.

As Adrian disappeared into the locker room, one thought hit me hard.

If playing together felt like this in practice

What would happen when the real game started?