The parking lot suddenly felt smaller. The distant hum of the arena's floodlights buzzed overhead, and the damp air smelled of cold concrete and ice.

His voice was casual, but there was an edge beneath it—like he was enjoying this more than he should.

The tension between them crackled like static. Two forwards, same age, same talent—different teams, different worlds, and somehow you were standing right in the middle of it.

He turned, jacket flaring behind him as he stalked toward his car. But he stopped halfway, looking over his shoulder.