Page 1 of Rivals on Lockdown

Chapter 1. The Heat Up

The arena lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the ice. Louis Zenith’s lungs burned as he tracked the puck. Thirty seconds left on the clock, and the score deadlocked at 3-3. He could feel Kaden Faulter’s presence somewhere behind him, waiting for him to make a mistake. Seven years since juniors, and nothing had changed—Faulter was still there, always watching, always ready to strike.

The media loved this—the two of them, always circling each other. Zenith and Faulter, hockey’s favorite rivalry, names linked together in every sports column like some cosmic joke. It didn’t matter that they were nothing alike. Kaden Faulter, the golden boy of the league, heir to the Faulter media empire, who probably had designer labels sewn into his practice gear. The blond Adonis, with his lightning speed and a pretty-boy smile that made fangirls swoon. Then there was Louis: dark-haired, broad-shouldered, a defenseman who’d worked his way up from local rinks and borrowed equipment. The fans ate it up, spinning stories about their “charged encounters” on ice, debating every glare and shoulder check like it held some hidden meaning. If they only knew how much they truly couldn’t stand each other.

Coach Martinez’s voice cut through the crowd’s roar. “Zenith! Watch your left!”

The warning came a split second too late. With Louis caught between watching the puck and checking his passingoptions, a blur of white and blue—Faulter’s jersey—flashed in his peripheral vision. Before he could shift his weight to brace for impact, Kaden slammed into him hard, their shoulders crashing. The puck disappeared from Louis’s stick as he fought to keep his balance. Classic Faulter—making the hit look like a clean defensive play for the refs while throwing his full weight at the perfect angle to knock Louis off-rhythm. Louis pivoted hard, ice spraying as he pushed himself to catch up, but Kaden had always been just a half-step faster.

Faulter crossed the blue line as Louis raced to close the gap. Their goalie, Mike, dropped into position, shoulders squared, but Louis already knew what was coming. Seven years of watching the same shot—quick stick-handle, a slight shoulder dip, then top corner. The puck left Faulter’s stick just as Louis lunged to block it. Too late. The final buzzer pierced the air as it hit the back of the net.

Visitors 4, Home 3.

Louis slammed his stick against the ice, the crack lost in the eruption of cheers from the visiting crowd. Two goals tonight, and for what? Just to watch Kaden fucking Faulter light up the scoreboard in the final seconds.

Kaden let out a victory whoop that cut through the noise. “That’s how it’s done!”

Louis forced himself to look up, watching his rival embark on his trademark celebration lap. Hands raised to the crowd, that million-dollar smile flashing as he soaked in the attention. Some of the home fans were even cheering for him now—traitors. Louis’s grip tightened on his stick until his knuckles ached. It was only mid-playoffs, not the end of the world, but losing on Christmas Eve made the defeat sting that much worse.

“Shake it off, Zenith,” Coach Martinez called out behind him, but Louis barely heard him over the blood rushing in his ears.

The teams lined up for the traditional handshake, a parade of sweaty jerseys and forced sportsmanship. Louis tried to regulate his breathing as the line inched forward. He could do this. He could be professional. He could—

“Merry Christmas, Zenith,” Kaden drawled as they came face to face, his voice dripping with false sweetness. “Consider this my gift to you—a reminder that some things never change.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Louis growled, meeting his gaze. “Your circus act’s getting old.”

“Maybe,” Kaden said, lips curving into a venomous smile. He leaned in closer, breath visible in the cold air. “But you still can’t help falling for it, can you?”

“Fuck you,” Louis breathed, plastering on a smile for the reporters even as his jaw remained clenched. Camera flashes exploded around them like lightning—the photographers never missed their precious rivalry moments.

Kaden chuckled. “Aw, don’t be like that. You know you’re my favorite plaything.” He leaned even closer, his lips ghosting the shell of Louis’s ear. “Nobody else gets that pretty flush of anger quite like you do.”

“Get bent,” Louis spat, shoving past him.

Kaden’s low chuckle followed him down the line. “Sweet dreams, Lou. I’ll be sure to think of you when I’m polishing my trophy tonight.”

Louis forced himself through the remaining handshakes, each one a blur of motion he performed on autopilot. The locker room beckoned—a refuge from the celebrating crowd, from Faulter’s smirking face, from everything.

He was the first one through the door, dropping onto the bench in front of his stall. The familiar scents of athletic tape and sweat couldn’t mask the staleness of defeat. One by one, his teammates filtered in, their usual post-game chatter subdued to murmurs. Nobody looked his way. They knew better.

Through the small window near the ceiling, Louis could see snow starting to fall harder, the flakes thick and heavy. The weather alert on his phone had warned of a storm rolling in tonight. His hands moved mechanically through the motions—unlacing skates, peeling off gear, dropping each piece into his bag with practiced precision. The routine should have been calming. It wasn’t.

Tinsel and miniature wreaths decorated the room—Taylor, their equipment manager, had spent hours on the holiday display. Now, it just felt like salt in the wound. Louis reached up and yanked a piece of tinsel from his stall, letting it fall to the floor.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Mike, their goalie, said from the next stall over. His voice was rough with frustration, but he tried for an encouraging tone. “It’s Christmas Eve, cap. Let it go.”

“I’m fine, just give me some space,” Louis said, the words coming out sharper than intended. He knew he was coming off as a jerk, but he couldn’t help it. Something about Faulter always stripped away his composure, left him feeling like he was still that drunk kid at the juniors afterparty, heart racing and shame burning in his chest.

Mike gave him a knowing look but didn’t push it. Smart man. In seven years of pro hockey, three different teams, Mike Patterson was the most perceptive goalie Louis had played with.

“Hey, party at my place is still on,” Santiago Lopez, their power forward, called out to the locker room. “Wife’s got enoughfood for an army, and Santa’s definitely leaving some top-shelf whiskey under our tree. No one should be alone tonight.”

A few halfhearted cheers went up around the room. Louis kept his head down, focused on packing his bag. He’d already decided he wasn’t going. The thought of making small talk, of having to maintain a brave face while everyone tiptoed around the loss—around him—made his skin crawl.

“That includes you, cap,” Santiago added pointedly.

“I’ll think about it,” Louis muttered, which they both knew meant no.

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