The winter sun glows pale over LanVille College, casting a silver sheen across the environment. It's the kind of day that feels alive, crisp in the air, bright chatter, and the hum of excitement building toward the annual campus hockey match.
For most students, it's just another event to cheer at, but for Stiles Marvy, it's a test of self-control. He hadn't played since high school, yet somehow Ethan Hunts convinced him to join the Literature Faculty team.
"You're too serious, man," Ethan had said. "Get on the ice, hit something that isn't an existential crisis for once."
So now, under the blinding lights of the college field, Stiles stands suited in the team's white-and-blue jersey, clutching his stick, trying to drown out the sound of chanting students.
Across the field, dressed in black and gold, is Carter Allen, helmet off, confident grin, leaning casually on his stick like he owns the ice.
"Of course," Stiles mutters. "Because the universe loves irony."
"You good?" Ethan asks beside him.
"Yeah," Stiles says, eyes fixed on Carter. "Perfect."
When the puck drops, chaos follows. The ice sings with blades carving through frost; bodies collide in a motion and sound.
Carter moves like he's showing off for an invisible camera, graceful, fast, too good for his own good. He scores early, skating past Stiles with a smirk.
"Careful, writer boy," Carter calls. "You might break a bone."
Stiles grits his teeth. He doesn't answer. But something sharp twists inside him, the need to prove he's more than the quiet guy holding a pen.
From the bleachers, Alisson West watches, wrapped in a burgundy scarf, sketchbook balanced on her knees. Beside her sits Kaitlyn Reeves, her best friend, blonde hair, sipping hot chocolate, eyes darting between Alisson and the rink.
"So that's him?" Kaitlyn asks, nodding toward the ice.
"That's him," Alisson admits.
"And the other one's the ex, huh?"
"Unfortunately." Alisson answered
Kaitlyn smirks softly.
"Looks like this game's less about hockey and more about testosterone management."
"You're not wrong," Alisson says, trying to smile.
But deep down, she feels uneasy. The rivalry between Stiles and Carter isn't just competition, it's something explosive, something waiting to ignite.
"You really like him, don't you?" Kaitlyn says suddenly.
"It's not that simple."
"It never is," Kaitlyn says, "Just be sure he's worth the time."
Back to the game, halfway further in the game, the score's tied. Stiles is playing harder than he should, adrenaline pushing him past exhaustion. The puck slides toward the center; he cuts in front of Carter, stealing it cleanly.
"Not bad," Carter says, skating beside him. "Didn't think you had it in you."
"Guess you don't know everything," Stiles fires back.
He charges toward the goal, heart pounding, the crowd roaring, but just as he raises his stick, Carter slams into him shoulder first.
The sound is brutal, a crash of bodies, skates scraping ice, the puck shooting off course. Both of them hit the boards hard, sliding down in a tangle of gear and anger.
The whistle sounds.
Carter grabs Stiles by the jersey, shoving him.
"You don't belong here!"
"Then stop trying to push me out," Stiles snaps.
Before anyone can stop them, Stiles shoves back, not hard, but enough to send Carter stumbling. The crowd gasps.
From the stands, Alisson rises to her feet confused on what's happening.
Immediately he looks up and for a moment, everything slows. Her expression isn't angry; it's scared. That's what stops him.
Coaches rush in, players separate them, the referee yells something about penalties. The crowd's murmuring, phones recording, whispers spreading faster than the sound of the next whistle.
The game ends early. The scores were forgotten but the damage was still very evident.
Later, behind the rink, the cold air bites Stiles' skin. He sits on a bench near the locker rooms, holding an ice pack to his shoulder, steam rising faintly from his breath.
The door creaks open.
"You're supposed to be celebrating," Alisson says quietly.
He looks up. She's still in her scarf and coat, cheeks pink from the cold. She stands a few steps away, unsure whether to scold or comfort.
"Didn't feel much like celebrating," he replies.
"You could've been hurt."
"So could he," Stiles mutters.
"That's not the point, and you know it."
Silence suddenly filled the locker room
"I didn't mean for it to go that far," Stiles says finally. "He knows how to get under my skin."
"That's what he wants," she replies softly. "He wants you to lose control."
He sighs, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Then maybe I'm doing exactly what he expects."
Alisson sits beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touch. The sound of distant cheering drifts faintly through the rink doors.
"You're not him, Stiles," she says. "Don't let him turn you into someone you're not."
Her words hang in the cold like visible breath. He looks at her, the curves of her face, eyes reflecting the rink's pale lights.
"You don't have to keep defending me," he says quietly.
"I'm not defending you," she answers, her tone gentle. "I'm standing with you."
He smiles faintly.
"You said that before."
"Then maybe you need to hear it again."
Their eyes linger on each other, the distance between them narrowing until she looks away, pretending to adjust her scarf.
Before either can say more, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the hallway. Kaitlyn appears, her expression uneasy, phone in hand.
"Alisson," she says, hesitant. "You need to see this."
Alisson stands, puzzled.
"What is it?"
Kaitlyn hands her the phone. On the screen, photos and clips already flooding the campus social page:
"Carter vs. Stiles: Hockey Brawl Over Art Girl?"
"Rumors of jealousy hit LanVille's Ice Rink."
Comments swarm beneath gossip, mockery, tags.
Alisson's stomach drops.
"Oh, no…"
"Alisson," Stiles starts, "I didn't"
"You didn't mean to?" she interrupts, her voice shaking. "Stiles, this isn't just gossip. The art board's watching everything I do before the showcase. This makes me look unprofessional!"
"I'll I'll I'll....fix it"
"You can't!" she snaps, then stops herself, breath catching. Her voice softens. "You can't fix perception. Once people see something, they don't unsee it."
Kaitlyn glances between them.
"I'll give you two a minute," she murmurs, stepping away into the corridor.
The silence that follows is raw.
"I never wanted to make your life harder," Stiles says quietly.
"I know," Alisson whispers. "But meaning well doesn't erase consequences."
She wraps her coat tighter.
"I need space, Stiles. Just… a little."
Before he can respond, she turns and walks out the double doors, her boots echoing on the concrete.
The cold creeps in around him, ice melting down his wrist. Stiles doesn't move. The sound of her fading footsteps feels louder than the entire game.
Outside, thunder rumbles low and distant like a warning of storms yet to come.