Cold Snap Rivalry

The Bell Center was a cathedral of noise, and Gabriel Girard had stopped hearing the hymns years ago.

He skated through warm-ups with his head down and his stride long, the familiar scrape of steel on ice a rhythm he could feel in his molars. Around him, the arena swelled with twenty-one thousand voices, a living thing that breathed, roared, and hated in equal measure. The Montreal Canadiens in white and red. The Toronto Maple Leafs in blue. A Saturday night in late November, and the air tasted like a game that mattered.

Gabriel did not look at the other end of the ice. He did not need to. He knew exactly where number seventeen was, cutting lazy circles near the blue line, his blade kicking up small sprays of snow that caught the lights. Hunter Belanger was impossible to ignore even when you were trying, especially when you were trying.

"Girard." Owen Morin slid up beside him, bumping his shoulder pad. "You're staring."

"I am stretching."

"You are stretching your neck in one specific direction, buddy." Owen's grin was audible through his cage. "He chirp you yet?"

Gabriel did not answer. He finished his stretch and skated toward the bench, and behind him he heard Hunter's laugh carry across the ice, bright and sharp and aimed like a weapon. It had been three weeks since their teams last met. Three weeks since the hit that had cracked Hunter's visor and sent the Toronto media into a frenzy. Three weeks of Hunter's voice in post-game interviews, all that practiced charm, saying things like Girard plays hard; I respect that, but he's going to have to catch me first with a wink that made Gabriel want to put him through the glass again.

He wanted to put him through the glass. He wanted to put his hands on him. The two thoughts had started feeling like the same thought, and that was a problem he did not know how to solve.

The anthem played. Gabriel stood on the blue line with his gloves tucked under his arm and his eyes fixed on the flag, and he did not look at the Toronto bench. He did not.

The game started like a car crash in slow motion.

By the end of the first period, Montreal was down one-nothing on a power-play goal that had nothing to do with Gabriel's pairing. He sat on the bench and watched the replay on the jumbotron, jaw tight, water bottle untouched. Coach Ducharme was calm in the way that meant he was furious, his voice low and even as he sketched adjustments on the whiteboard. Gabriel listened with half his attention. The other half was tracking Hunter Belanger through the glass, watching him bump fists with his linemates, watching him throw his head back and laugh at something his center said.

Hunter always looked like he was having the time of his life. That was the thing Gabriel could not stand. The man played hockey like it was a game, not a war, and somehow still managed to be the most dangerous player on the ice.

Early in the second period, Gabriel got his chance.

Hunter picked up the puck in the neutral zone with speed, his stride opening up as he crossed the red line, and Gabriel was already moving. He read the play the way he always read Hunter, anticipating the cut toward the boards, the little hesitation move that froze defensemen who did not know better. Gabriel knew better. He had been studying Hunter Belanger for four seasons, and he knew exactly where he would be.

The hit was clean. Gabriel led with his shoulder, drove through Hunter's chest, and put him into the boards with a sound that echoed through the lower bowl. Hunter's visor cracked, a spiderweb of white lines spreading across the plastic, and he went down hard on one knee. The puck skittered away. The whistle blew.

Gabriel stood over him for one second, breathing hard, and then he skated toward the penalty box without waiting for the call. The crowd was on its feet, a roar that was half outrage and half bloodlust. Hunter was already up, already shouting something at the referee, already pointing at his broken visor with a theatrical outrage that Gabriel knew was at least fifty percent performance.

The penalty box door slammed behind him. Gabriel sat on the narrow bench and stared straight ahead, his gloves still on, his stick propped against the wall. Two minutes for boarding. He would take it. It had been worth it.

Hunter appeared on the other side of the glass.

He was still in his helmet, the cracked visor pushed up, and his green eyes were bright with something that was not quite anger. He pounded on the glass with his glove, once, twice, and Gabriel watched the vibration ripple through the pane between them. Hunter's mouth moved, and even through the crowd noise, Gabriel could read the words.

That all you got?

Gabriel slammed his glove against the glass. The impact stung his palm. Hunter grinned, wide and infuriating, and then the linesman was ushering him back toward the Toronto bench, and the moment was over.

The game ended 3-2 Toronto. Gabriel sat in the locker room afterward and answered the media's questions in monosyllables, his wet hair dripping onto the towel around his neck. Yes, the hit was clean. No, he had nothing to say about Belanger. No, he was not frustrated. Yes, they would be ready for the next game.

He showered and dressed in a dark sweater and tailored coat, and then he sat in the players' lounge and waited for the building to empty. It was something he had done since his rookie season, letting the crowds disperse, letting the silence settle over the arena like snow. Owen had offered to wait with him, and Gabriel had said no. Owen gave him a long look, then clapped him on the shoulder and left.

An hour after the final buzzer, Gabriel walked down to the loading bay. The concrete walls were cold and gray, and the air smelled of diesel and ice. His SUV was not there yet. He leaned against the wall, checked his phone, scrolled through nothing, and tried not to think about green eyes, a cracked visor, and the way Hunter's mouth had shaped the words that all you got like a dare.

Footsteps echoed behind him.

Gabriel knew who it was before he turned around. He knew the rhythm of that walk, the particular arrogance of it, the way Hunter Belanger moved through the world like he expected it to make room for him.

Hunter was still in his game-day suit, a navy number that probably cost more than Gabriel's first car. His tie was loose, his top button undone, and he was holding a bag of ice against his ribs. His hair was still damp from the shower, falling across his forehead in that way that was definitely not accidental. The grin was dialed down but not gone, a ghost of it hovering at the corner of his mouth.

"Girard," he said.

"Belanger."

"You cracked my visor."

"It was a clean hit."

"I did not say it was not clean." Hunter shifted the ice bag and winced, just slightly, just enough for Gabriel to notice. "I said you cracked my visor. There is a difference."

Gabriel turned to face him fully. The loading bay was empty except for the two of them, and the silence made every sound feel significant. The drip of water somewhere. The distant hum of the compressors. Hunter's breathing, still a little shallow, probably from the ribs.

"What do you want?" Gabriel asked.

"I want to know why." Hunter took a step closer. Then another. "Every game. Every shift. You hit me like I did something to you personally. And I have been trying to figure out what it is, but I cannot, because I don't even know you. So I am asking. Why is it always like this between us?"

Gabriel did not answer. His jaw was tight, his hands at his sides, and he could smell Hunter's cologne now, something clean and expensive that did not belong in a concrete loading bay at midnight.

"You know why," Gabriel said.

The three words hung in the air between them. Hunter's expression flickered, the grin fading into something more careful, more watchful. He took another step, close enough now that Gabriel could see the faint bruise blooming along his jaw, close enough that Gabriel could have reached out and touched him if he wanted to.

"Maybe I want to hear you say it," Hunter said.

Gabriel moved.

He had Hunter against the concrete wall before he decided to do it, one hand fisted in the front of that expensive navy suit, the other braced against the wall beside Hunter's head. The ice bag hit the floor with a wet smack. Hunter's breath rushed out of him; his eyes went wide, then narrow, then something else entirely.

"Stay out of my way," Gabriel said. His voice was low and rough, and he could feel Hunter's heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt, fast and steady and not afraid at all.

"No," Hunter said.

Gabriel kissed him.

It was not gentle. It was not a question. It was his mouth on Hunter's mouth and his hand tightening in Hunter's shirt and the taste of him, finally, after years of wondering and denying and hitting him instead of this. Hunter kissed back like he had been waiting for it, like he had known this was coming since the first time Gabriel put him into the boards. His mouth opened under Gabriel's, and his hands came up to grip Gabriel's coat, and he made a sound that went straight to Gabriel's gut.

Gabriel pulled back just far enough to speak. "My car. Now."

His SUV was parked in the player lot, the windows tinted dark, the back seat big enough for what he suddenly knew was coming. They did not speak on the way there. Gabriel's hand was around Hunter's wrist, and Hunter let himself be pulled, and that was the first thing Gabriel noticed. The surrender. Hunter Belanger, who never shut up, who never backed down, who never let anyone dictate the terms of anything, was letting Gabriel lead.

The door closed behind them. The tinted windows turned the parking lot lights to a dim amber glow. Gabriel pushed Hunter into the back seat and climbed over him, and then his hands were everywhere, shoving Hunter's jacket off his shoulders, yanking at his tie, pulling his shirt free from his waistband. Hunter was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling under Gabriel's palms, and his eyes were dark and fixed on Gabriel's face.

"Tell me what you want," Gabriel said.

"You," Hunter said. "I want you to stop pretending you do not want this."

Gabriel pinned Hunter's wrists above his head. Hunter's breath caught, and his hips shifted beneath Gabriel's weight, and Gabriel could feel how hard he was already, the heat of him through the layers of their clothes.

"Do not move," Gabriel said.

Hunter did not move.

Gabriel took his time after that. He unbuttoned Hunter's shirt with slow, deliberate fingers, revealing the lean muscle of his chest, the tattoo of his mother's initials on his ribs that Gabriel had seen in photographs but never touched. He touched it now, his fingertips tracing the letters, and Hunter shivered. Gabriel bent his head and put his mouth on Hunter's throat, and Hunter groaned, a low, wrecked sound that was nothing like the laughter Gabriel had heard across the ice.

"You have been driving me insane," Gabriel said against his skin. "For years. Every game. Every interview. That smile."

"That was the point." Hunter's voice was unsteady. "I wanted you to notice me."

"I noticed."

He got Hunter's belt open and his pants down, and then his hand was around Hunter's cock, and Hunter was arching off the seat, his wrists still pinned, his mouth open in a gasp. Gabriel worked him slowly at first, learning the weight and shape of him, the way his hips jerked when Gabriel's thumb swept over the head. Then faster, harder, watching Hunter's face the whole time, watching the control he always wore crack and splinter.

"Gabriel," Hunter said, and the sound of his own name in that voice, in that accent, almost undid him.

He let go of Hunter's wrists and reached for his own belt. Hunter's hands were on him immediately, helping, pulling, and then Gabriel's cock was free, and he was pressing Hunter down into the seat and lining himself up. There was lube in the center console, a small bottle he kept there for reasons he had never let himself examine too closely. He reached for it now, and Hunter watched him with hooded eyes, lips parted, chest heaving.

"You have done this before," Hunter said. It was not a question.

"Yes."

"Good."

Gabriel prepped him quickly, efficiently, one finger and then two, and Hunter took it with his eyes closed and his head thrown back, his hands gripping Gabriel's shoulders. When Gabriel pushed into him, they both went still. The fit was tight and hot and perfect, and Hunter's legs came up around his waist, and Gabriel buried his face in Hunter's neck and breathed.

"Move," Hunter said. "I am not going to break."

Gabriel moved.

He fucked Hunter in the back of his SUV with the parking lot lights casting amber shadows across their skin, and it was rough and fast and exactly what he had been imagining for longer than he wanted to admit. Hunter met every thrust, his nails digging into Gabriel's back through his shirt, his voice a constant stream of yes and there and harder, and when Gabriel reached between them and took Hunter's cock in his hand again, Hunter came with a shout that fogged the windows.

Gabriel followed a few seconds later, his release tearing through him, his teeth clenched against Hunter's shoulder. They lay there in the aftermath, tangled together, breathing hard, the silence filling with everything they hadn't said.

Hunter straightened his tie. The motion was so absurd, so perfectly Hunter, that Gabriel almost laughed. Hunter's hands were still shaking, but he got the knot right on the third try. Then he smoothed down his jacket and looked at Gabriel with a grin that was almost back to normal.

"We should do this again," Hunter said.

"Get out of the car."

"Two weeks. Toronto. Our building." Hunter opened the door and stepped out into the cold night air. He leaned back in for just a moment, his hair falling across his forehead, his eyes still dark. "I will see you then, Girard."

Gabriel watched him walk away. Hunter's stride was steady, his shoulders square, like he had not just been pinned and fucked and left shaking in the back seat of a rival's car. Like he had won something.

Gabriel looked down at his hands. They were trembling. He pressed them flat against the steering wheel and waited for the shaking to stop, but it didn't, and he didn't know what that meant. He did not know what any of this meant.

He started the engine and drove home through the empty Montreal streets. Hunter's cologne still clung to his collar, and he could still taste him, and for the first time in five seasons, he had no idea what came next.