The following forty-eight hours were a blur of flickering blue light and agonizing replays. Everywhere Corner turned, the city of Toronto was breathing down his neck. In every sports bar along Front Street, on the digital billboards towering over Yulee Square, and across every television screen from British Columbia to Newfoundland, the narrative was the same: The Clash of the Two Rugby Teams.
The Canadian sports networks were obsessed. TSN and Sportsnet had dedicated entire segments to analyzing the "unbreakable wall" of Henry's Ontario defense versus the "electric agility" of Corner's Toronto backline. But as Corner sat in the sterile, air-conditioned green room of the Scotiabank Arena, waiting for the official pre-match press conference, the pundits' voices on the wall-mounted TV sounded like static.
"...and the tension between these two captains is at an all-time high," the blonde anchor was saying, her voice polished and eager. "Henry of Ontario has been uncharacteristically quiet this week, while Toronto's Corner has been spotted training at all hours. Is this dedication, or is the pressure finally getting to the young star?"
Corner gripped his water bottle so hard the plastic crinkled. His lips still felt bruised—not physically, but psychologically. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt that sharp, cold press of Henry's mouth against his, followed by the stinging insult of Henry wiping him away like filth.
"Corner? You're up." The PR liaison, a harried woman with a headset, beckoned him toward the heavy double doors.
He stood, smoothing out his blue and white team polo. His legs felt heavy, but his heart was racing at a breakneck speed. He walked through the doors and was immediately blinded by a sea of camera flashes. The roar of the press was a physical weight, a wall of noise that demanded his total attention.
And there, sitting at the long draped table under the harsh, unforgiving stage lights, was Henry.
Henry looked like a god carved from granite. He was already seated, leaning back with a casual, predatory grace that made the formal setting look like his private den. He wore the black and gold of Ontario with a terrifying level of confidence. When Corner took his seat at the opposite end of the table, the space between them felt like a live wire, sparking with a tension the reporters could clearly sense but couldn't quite define.
"We will begin with questions for Captain Henry," the moderator announced.
A reporter from the Globe and Mail stood up. "Henry, there's been talk about the personal nature of this rivalry. You were seen running in Toronto suburbs early yesterday morning. Is it true you've been scouting the competition on their own turf?"
Corner's heart skipped a beat. He kept his face a mask of stone, staring straight ahead at the back of the room.
Henry leaned into the microphone, his voice smooth and dangerously calm. "I run where I want, when I want. Toronto's streets are public property, though I'll admit," he paused, his eyes sliding slowly, agonizingly toward Corner, "the scenery was... underwhelming. A lot of tripping and stumbling. It seems some players struggle to keep their footing when the pressure mounts."
A ripple of murmurs went through the room. Corner felt the blood rush to his ears. It was a direct hit—a hidden jab that only the two of them understood.
"Corner," a reporter from CBC Sports chimed in, "how do you respond to that? Ontario has won the last three encounters. Is there a mental block when it comes to facing Henry's leadership?"
Corner leaned forward, his hands trembling slightly under the table where no one could see. "There's no mental block," he said, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. "Ontario plays a heavy, aggressive game. They rely on intimidation. But intimidation only works if you're afraid. And I'm not afraid of Henry. I'm tired of him."
Henry let out a short, mocking huff of laughter, not even bothering with the microphone. The sound was a whip-crack in the silent room.
The questions continued for an hour—an eternal, grueling hour of baiting and dodging. Through it all, Corner could feel Henry's gaze. It wasn't constant; it was intermittent, like a predator checking on its prey to make sure it hadn't escaped the cage. Whenever Corner spoke, Henry would tilt his head, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, as if everything Corner said was a joke he was in on.
"Final question," the moderator said. "For both of you. In the event of a close game, what is the one thing that will decide the outcome tomorrow?"
Henry didn't hesitate. He grabbed the mic, his knuckles white. "Focus," he snapped. "In rugby, the moment you let your personal feelings or your... distractions... cloud your judgment, you've already lost. I don't have distractions. I have a goal."
He turned his head then, looking directly at Corner in front of a hundred rolling cameras. His eyes were dark, swirling with that possessive fury he had shown on the street, but masked by a veneer of professional coldness. "Some people are too busy looking for something they can't have to actually play the game."
Corner stood up before the moderator could even dismiss them. The chair scraped loudly against the floor, a jarring screech that cut through the room. "The outcome will be decided by who wants it more," Corner said, his voice trembling with a mix of rage and unacknowledged hurt. "And I have nothing left to lose. Henry has everything to lose. His boring ego."
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He turned and walked off the stage, the flashes of the cameras exploding behind him like a firing squad.
He made it to the hallway, his breath coming in jagged hitches. He needed to get out. He needed to be away from the cameras, away from the smell of Henry's cologne, away from the suffocating weight of the lies they were telling the world.
He reached the exit to the underground parking lot, the air turning colder as he moved away from the lights. He was almost at his car when a hand slammed against the concrete pillar next to his head, stopping him in his tracks.
Corner didn't have to turn around. The heat radiating from the body behind him was unmistakable.
"Running away again, Corner?" Henry's voice was a low growl, stripped of its press-conference polish. He was standing so close that Corner could feel the man's chest brushing against his shoulder blades.
"The cameras are gone, Henry," Corner hissed, staring at the gray concrete. "You don't have to pretend to hate me anymore. You can just do it in private."
Henry leaned in, his breath hot against Corner's neck, sending a traitorous shiver down Corner's spine. "Hate you? You think this is about hate?" Henry's other hand came up, gripping Corner's jaw and forcing him to turn his head.
Henry's face was a mask of tortured aggression. " You're a foul in my perfect game. And yet, here you are, talking about my ego in front of the whole country."
"Let go of me," Corner whispered, though he made no move to pull away.
"I'll let go when I've broken you," Henry muttered, his eyes fixated on Corner's mouth with a hunger that contradicted every cold word he had ever spoken. "Tomorrow, on that field, I'm going to remind you exactly where you belong. And it's not standing across from me. It's under me."
Henry suddenly stepped back, the loss of his heat leaving Corner feeling physically sick. Henry adjusted his polo, his expression smoothing back into that terrifying, icy calm.
"See you at kickoff, Captain," Henry said, his voice flat.
He turned and walked back toward the arena, leaving Corner standing in the shadows of the parking garage.