Rivalries Novels & Stories

"How do you know that?" "I pay attention." The words settled into me deeper than they should have, given how simply he said them. Three years of rivalry, and I never once considered that his attention to me might have been anything other than strategic, something calculated to give him an edge in whatever negotiation we were locked in that week. Now I wasn't sure it had ever been purely that, even back then. I wondered how many small things he noticed over those three years that had nothing to do with winning at all.

Ashley pulled up to me and with lowered voice, she answered: “Max just challenged Aston to a biking race.” I cast a long look at them. Their hatred for each other was so evident, it was practically choking the air. “He did?” “It’s a long story. The longest running rivalry in town is between the Shadow Ryders, Aston’s the prez, and Max’s Pine Creek Outlaws. It’s a full-blown war between them. Those two hate each other.” “Why?” “It’s an ego thing. The biking culture is strong here. Aston’s always beating Max. They’re never gonna be best friends again.”

Cool. “I’m not something you can win,” I added softly. “I’m not a point to score because Victor is gaining in on us or because tensions are high.” His eyes flickered at the mention of Victor. “This isn’t about Victor.” “Everything lately is about Victor.” That seemed to hit a nerve. He looked away for a second, flexing his jaw. The rivalry had bled into everything—practice, locker rooms, group chats, tension between friends who used to move like one unit.

"Let's keep this civil." "Civil?" Blake laughed, incredulity dripping from his tone. "We're fighting over a fortune! It's anything but civil!" As anger and resentment churned in the air, flashbacks of their childhood surfaced in both their minds. They could picture their grandfather's crooked smile, a man who always stoked the flames of competition, making even simple games feel like high-stakes contests. Growing up, each accolade had been met with the other's disappointment, fostering a rivalry rooted deep in their very identities.

I knew he wasn't just here to say congratulations, because if he was that's something actually new. “You ran well today,” Ryan added, casually like it didn’t cost him anything to say it taking a sip from his glass. “Yeah, I know,” I said, because I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of his feigned sincerity. Kyle whistled low. “And the rivalry continues.” That got a laugh from the team members, but Ryan didn’t even glance at them. He bit on his lips, his attention still locked on me, like the rest of the people here didn't matter.

The most prominent was a crystal trophy—"Blackwood Pack's Strategist of the Year." I had won that for him. Killian reached for my shoulder, probably about to try one of his "calming" tricks. "Sera, I know this is hard to accept, but for the future of the pack—" My hand shot out and grabbed the crystal trophy. CRACK. Sharp fragments dug deep into my palm, and blood welled up instantly. Killian froze. I held up my bleeding hand. The crimson drops blossomed against the crystal, stark and visceral, like morbid roses blooming on glass.

Students crowded the stands in house-colored scarves, faces painted, throats raw from yelling. The leaderboard towered over the stadium like a guillotine, each new update drawing screams or groans. The second half of the Trials had begun. And no one was playing nice. Rivalries that had simmered during the first week were now frothing. Valiant had accused Dominion of sabotaging their climbing gear. Titan had gotten into a brawl with Prestige. Royal was in shambles—half their team hadn’t shown up to practice, and their leader was supposedly crying in the conservatory.

“You elbowed me in the ribs.” “That was love.” “That was violence.” I bit back a laugh. “I still won though.” He rolled his eyes so hard I was worried they might fall out of his head. “Rematch tomorrow?” I offered, nudging his knee with mine. “No.” “Best two out of three?” “No.” “Winner gets bragging rights and the loser has to carry all the snacks.” He sighed, long and dramatic, like I was ruining his life with my mere existence. “You already brag even when you lose. There’s no winning with you.”

Regret? Then his gaze shifted to Ryder, standing far too close to me, his posture radiating a possessive arrogance. Their eyes clashed, a silent, volatile collision like a storm raging against an unyielding stone cliff. An almost palpable electricity crackled between them, a tangible manifestation of the unspoken tension that hung heavy in the air. Whatever uneasy truce they might have forged after the chaotic events of last night was clearly shattered, the underlying rivalry simmering dangerously beneath the surface.

Andre talked about pressing triggers, defensive shape and the way Merseyside's fullbacks pushed high when they were chasing the game. Later that afternoon, I understood Russell was doing the same. A clip from his media duties appeared online. One of the reporters asked whether facing Andre added anything to the match. Russell leaned toward the microphone and said, "It adds three points if we win. That's enough." The room laughed. He did not. For once, they sounded almost alike. By the time Numancia travelled to England, the rivalry had become less personal in public and somehow more serious because of it. Nobody needed them to insult each other anymore. The history did the work.