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Alberu Crossman trudged through the bitter cold of the hotel parking lot toward the team bus, breath fogging faintly in the sharp winter air. Like most of his teammates, it was his first time in Asia. He had expected to feel more overwhelmed by that, but Seoul was hardly a dazzling foreign capital. There was no glitter here, no distraction, only endless stretches of white, biting cold, and the quiet hum of a place that revolved around hockey.
Roan had never been this cold, not in the way that settled into your bones and stayed there, but Alberu adapted quickly. Cold, like pressure, was simply another variable to account for.
It was two days before Christmas, but for the world’s best teenage hockey players, Christmas meant the World Junior Hockey Championships. No lights, no celebrations, just the rink, the crowd, and the weight of expectation.
For Alberu, it meant something else entirely.
It meant the chance to finally get a firsthand look at Choi Han.
There had been no escaping the noise around the seventeen-year-old Korean phenom. Alberu was sick of hearing the name, Choi Han repeated with the kind of reverence usually reserved for legends, not boys who had yet to prove themselves on the world stage. The hype had spread so relentlessly through the hockey world that even Roan hadn’t been far enough to avoid it.
Both Alberu and Choi Han were eligible for the NHL entry draft that coming June, and already they were projected as the first and second overall picks. Which one would go first depended entirely on who you asked, and how much they valued precision over instinct, control over raw force.
Alberu found the debate tiresome.
Soon enough, it wouldn’t be a question for analysts or reporters.
They would settle it on the ice.
Alberu knew his answer.
He had never met Choi Han. Never faced him across the ice, never tested himself against that much-talked-about instinct and speed. But the decision had already been made, settled somewhere deep and unshakable.
He would defeat him.
He would start here, by leading Roan to a gold medal victory, on foreign ice, under the weight of another nation’s expectations. Then he would return home and carry his team to a championship season. And after that, there would be no debate left to entertain, no argument worth hearing.
He would be chosen first.
This was Alberu Crossman’s year.
It had always been his year. Since he was twelve, everything had been building toward this, every early morning on the ice, every calculated step forward, every quiet, relentless refinement of his game. He had been shaped for this moment, honed for it with purpose.
No rising star, no matter how loudly the world praised him, would take that away.
Not even Choi Han.
The Roan team arrived at the rink just as the Korean squad was wrapping up their practice. Alberu slowed near the boards with a few of his teammates, his gaze drifting over the ice as the Koreans ran their final drills.
They moved fast, sharp passes, clean formations, the kind of cohesion that came from playing together long enough to trust instinct over thought. Their practice jerseys were blank, no names stitched across the back, no easy way to distinguish one player from another.
Annoying.
Alberu’s eyes tracked them anyway, searching, not for a number, but for something else. A pattern. A presence. The one player who didn’t quite move like the rest.
Before he could isolate it, a sharp voice cut through the cold air.
“Crossman, locker room. Now.”
His assistant coach.
The moment snapped cleanly in half. Alberu didn’t argue, he never did. Just cast one last, gave a bright smile and measured look over the ice before turning away.
The practice schedule here was tight. No time to linger. No room for curiosity.
Still… he had seen enough to know one thing.
Finding Choi Han wouldn’t be simple.
They took to the ice the moment the Zamboni finished its slow, methodical sweep, the fresh layer of ice still gleaming under the harsh arena lights. The rink was small, cramped, almost and a little worse for wear. Scuffed boards, dull glass, the faint echo of skates carrying too easily in the open space. Nothing like the main arena downtown, where the real games and the real eyes would be.
A handful of people dotted the stands. Scouts, most likely. A few family members who had made the long journey from Roan. And then the locals, the kind of fans who showed up even for practice, bundled against the cold, watching with quiet intensity.
Alberu didn’t pay them much mind.
Not at first.
Halfway through practice, as drills blurred into repetition and muscle memory took over, his attention snagged on a small, still pocket of the stands. A young man sat a few rows above the penalty box, dressed in a Team Korea cap and jacket, posture relaxed but alert in a way that didn’t quite match the casual setting. On either side of him sat an older man and woman, likely his parents.
Alberu’s gaze lingered a fraction longer than necessary.
From this distance, it was difficult to be certain. But there was something about the way he watched, focused, unblinking, as though he wasn’t just observing the game but studying it.
Choi Han.
It had to be.
Alberu had read enough to piece together fragments, Korean, raised partly abroad, details scattered and inconsistent depending on the source. None of it particularly reliable. None of it important.
What mattered was this:
He had found him.
Even sitting still, doing nothing at all, Choi Han didn’t blend into the background.
And for the first time since arriving in Korea, Alberu felt something shift, sharp and quiet, like the moment before a play unfolded.
So that was the player the world wouldn’t stop talking about.
…Good.
“Care to join us, Crossman?” his coach called sharply across the ice.
Alberu turned, faint irritation flickering beneath his composed exterior as he realized the rest of his teammates had already gathered around the coach, but he didn’t act on it. He pushed off smoothly, gliding toward them with a charming smile, every movement controlled despite the brief lapse.
He didn’t like that Choi Han— if that really was him— was here, sitting in the stands, watching.
Or perhaps he did.
Perhaps this was deliberate. A quiet kind of reconnaissance. Watching his future competition up close, measuring, analyzing. Trying to understand what he would be up against later in the tournament.
The thought settled neatly into place.
If Choi Han had come to observe him, then good.
Let him watch.
Let him see exactly what he was walking into.
Because if there was even a hint of doubt, if there was even a fraction of hesitation…
He should feel it now.
After practice, Alberu showered and dressed with efficient speed, unwilling to linger in the humid warmth of the locker room. By the time he stepped back out toward the rink, the air had already reclaimed its sharp bite.
He paused behind the glass, eyes scanning the stands almost instinctively.
Empty.
Choi Han and the couple seated beside him were gone. In their place, the Slovakian team had taken over the ice, running drills with a kind of raw, unpolished energy that filled the smaller rink.
Alberu exhaled quietly, the tension he hadn’t acknowledged settling back into something colder, more contained.
So that was it.
No confrontation. No moment.
Just absence.
He turned away without another glance and headed toward the vending machines tucked into the corner. The hum of the machine filled the quiet as he fed in coins, retrieving a bottle of Coke. Cold against his fingers. Grounding.
For a moment, he stood there, considering.
Then he made up his mind.
The team bus wouldn’t leave just yet.
He zipped his Team Roan parka up to his chin and slipped out through a side door. The cold hit immediately, sharp, unforgiving, the kind that clawed at exposed skin and settled deep in the lungs.
Alberu leaned back against the brick wall, the rough surface solid at his spine. He shoved the Coke into his coat pocket, letting the chill seep through the fabric, anchoring him further.
For a moment, he simply stood there, breath fogging into the night air, the quiet stretching around him.
Then his hand dipped into his pocket again, fingers brushing against the lighter—
“You’re not supposed to smoke over here,” someone said.
It took Alberu a moment to process the English, the words filtering through the cold fog in his head before settling into place.
He turned.
Choi Han stood a few steps away, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other loosely gesturing toward a designated spot farther down the wall. Up close, he was unmistakable.
There was a quiet sharpness to him, something in the way he carried himself, steady and self-contained. His hair fell dark and unyielding, his eyes just as deep, catching the dim light without giving anything away. His features were clean, composed, but not soft, there was strength there, something honed rather than inherited.
And then there were the details that pulled Alberu’s attention despite himself.
Skin smooth and lightly tanned, almost unfairly unmarked except for a scattering of dark freckles across the bridge of his nose and along his cheekbones. Subtle, but striking enough to hold the eye longer than intended.
Alberu’s gaze lingered for half a second too long before he pulled it back, expression settling into something cool and unimpressed. Then as usual, he smiled, a bright and princely smile.
So.
This was Choi Han.
“Excuse me?” Alberu asked politely. Even that single word came out wrong, too flat, the accent heavier than he liked.
“The smoking area is over there.” Choi Han pointed toward the far corner of the parking lot, where a piled snowbank rose like a barrier. The wind cut across that stretch, visible even from here in the way loose snow skittered over the surface.
Alberu followed the direction with his eyes, unimpressed.
Then he leaned back against the brick wall instead, deliberately unmoving, and slipped the cigarette back into his pocket.
This country was ridiculous.
It wasn’t enough that he couldn’t smoke indoors anywhere, now he was expected to stand out in the open, in the freezing wind, like some kind of punishment?
His gaze flicked back to Choi Han, cool and slightly irritated but it was gone the moment it flickered through his eyes.
“If I wanted to freeze,” he said, his English careful but edged, “I would stay on the ice.”
“I’m surprised you smoke,” Choi said, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“I’m surprised you know English,” Alberu shot back, the words clipped, precise.
One of Choi’s brows lifted, amused rather than offended. “Would you have understood Korean?”
Alberu held his gaze, unflinching. “A little.”
That seemed to catch him off guard, just for a second. Then Choi’s smile shifted, quieter now, something more thoughtful than teasing.
“Well,” he said, inclining his head slightly, “my mistake.”
“I wanted to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. “Choi Han.”
Alberu looked at the offered hand for a beat longer than necessary, gaze flicking back up to his face. Then, almost despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Yes,” he said simply, and took it.
Choi Han’s grip was firm. Steady. Not showy, just certain.
“You’re an incredible player to watch,” he added, the words easy, unforced.
“I know.”
Alberu released his hand without hurry, composure settling back into place like it had never shifted. If Choi Han was expecting anything in return, a compliment, acknowledgment, even polite reciprocity he gave no sign of it. He could compliment him, Alberu was very gifted in the art of complimenting others. But, this man in front of him was his supposed rival.
He wasn’t here to admire him.
And he certainly wasn’t going to say it out loud.
When Alberu didn’t offer anything more, Choi Han let the silence settle for a moment before shifting, easy as if it didn’t bother him.
“Are your parents here with you?” he asked.
“No.”
A brief pause. Not awkward, just… there.
“Oh.” Choi Han’s voice softened, just slightly. “That must be rough. With Christmas and everything.”
Alberu caught only parts of it at first, the sentence longer than he preferred, the meaning lagging a second behind the words. His brow knit faintly before it smoothed out again.
“Is fine,” he said.
It wasn’t something worth discussing.
Choi Han didn’t push. He just nodded once and shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunching a little against the cold.
“It’s cold, huh?”
“Yes.”
The word came easier.
For a moment, that was all there was, breath fogging in the air, the quiet stretch of the parking lot, and the strange, almost neutral space between them.
They stood side by side against the brick wall, the cold seeping through layers, settling into bone. For a while, neither of them spoke.
Choi Han tipped his head back against the rough surface, then turned it slightly, gaze dropping to Alberu.
He hadn’t noticed it before, on the ice, across the rink, but up close, the difference was clear. Alberu stood a few inches shorter, though it didn’t show in the way he carried himself. There was nothing diminished about him. If anything, the contrast only made his presence sharper.
And he was… unexpectedly striking.
The cold had brushed color into his cheeks, a soft flush that stood out against otherwise composed features. His breath slipped out in pale clouds, catching the dim light for a second before disappearing. His lips, pressed into that familiar, controlled line were tinged pink from the chill.
For someone so meticulously put together, so clearly aware of every detail he presented to the world, there was something unguarded about him like this.
Choi Han watched a second too long before looking away, expression settling back into something neutral.
“Cold enough for you?” he asked again, quieter this time, almost like he was testing something, not the weather, but the space between them.
Alberu glanced sideways at him, a pleasant smile already curving onto his face as though the question genuinely entertained him.
“You ask this twice already,” he said lightly. “Is this how Koreans flirt? Repeating obvious observations until someone freezes to death?”
Choi Han blinked once before a surprised laugh slipped out of him, visible in the cold air.
“So you can joke.”
“I can do many things,” Alberu replied smoothly. “You simply haven’t earned the privilege of seeing them yet.”
There it was again, that easy smile, polished and princely on the surface. But beneath it, Choi Han could feel the edge hidden underneath, sharp as a skate blade.
Most players who carried reputations like Alberu Crossman’s were loud about it. Aggressive. Eager to prove themselves every second they breathed.
Alberu didn’t need to.
He spoke like someone already convinced the world belonged to him.
Choi Han tilted his head slightly. “You always talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re insulting someone and complimenting yourself at the same time.”
Alberu’s smile widened, bright and effortless. “And yet you’re still standing here talking to me. So perhaps it’s working.”
That earned him another laugh.
God, he really was prettier when he smiled. The thought arrived suddenly and uninvited. Choi Han shoved it aside immediately.
Alberu popped the metal seal on his Coke can with elegant fingers, taking a slow sip while watching Choi Han over the rim like a man entirely aware of the effect he had on people.
“You came to observe our practice,” he said casually. “I’m touched.”
“You noticed.”
“Of course I noticed.” Alberu lowered the bottle. “You weren’t subtle.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
The answer came easily. Honestly.
For some reason, that amused Alberu even more.
Most players danced around him carefully, especially once they recognized who he was. They watched what they said. Measured reactions, played little social games.
Choi Han just walked straight through things.
Dangerous type of person.
“And?” Alberu asked, smile still firmly in place. “Now that you’ve seen me play in person, are the rumors true?”
Choi Han met his eyes directly.
“Yes.”
The Korean athlete had no hesitation nor did he try to soften it.
For the briefest moment, Alberu felt something unpleasantly warm curl beneath his ribs. Satisfaction, maybe. Or irritation that praise from this person mattered enough to register at all.
He hid it effortlessly behind another elegant smile.
“How intelligent of you,” he said.
Choi Han laughed again, shaking his head. “You really like yourself, huh?”
“Someone should.” Alberu took another drink before adding sweetly, “I assumed Koreans were too busy worshipping you.”
That made Choi Han grin outright now, sharp and bright and annoyingly attractive in the dim winter light.
“Hmm,” he said. “You almost sound jealous.”
Alberu’s smile never slipped.
“Oh,” he said softly, eyes narrowing just slightly, “if I were jealous of you, Choi Han, you would know.”
“Next year the tournament’s in Busan,” Choi Han said, tipping his head back slightly against the brick wall. “My hometown.”
Alberu finished his drink, the Coke already gone flat from the cold, and flicked the empty can neatly into the nearby bin without looking.
He could have let the conversation die there.
Probably should have.
But Choi Han seemed absurdly committed to continuing it, standing out here in freezing weather with a rival player instead of wherever his team expected him to be. Alberu found himself just curious enough to indulge him.
“Tell me,” he said, smooth and smiling, “is Busan actually more exciting than… this?” He gestured vaguely toward the snow-covered parking lot and depressing concrete surroundings. “Or are you simply emotionally attached to it?”
Choi Han laughed under his breath.
“Than here? Yeah, probably a little.” His eyes flicked out toward the dark street beyond the rink. “Still cold, though.”
“How disappointing.”
“Your parents are here,” Alberu observed lightly.
“For this? Yeah.” Choi Han nodded once, hands still tucked into his pockets. “They try to come watch whenever they can. Doesn’t matter where I’m playing.”
“How devoted.”
There was a teasing lilt to Alberu’s voice, easy and polished enough that most people would have mistaken it for sincerity.
Choi Han, annoyingly, did not.
“Yeah,” he said anyway, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “I know. They’re great.”
Alberu’s own smile remained perfectly in place.
Warm family. Supportive parents. People waiting in the stands wearing your colors with pride instead of obligation.
How charming for him.
For a brief moment, Alberu considered saying something cutting just to see what expression Choi Han would make. Then decided against it. Mostly because he couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound a little too honest underneath the sarcasm.
So instead, he simply hummed softly and looked out across the dark parking lot.
The silence that settled afterward wasn’t awkward exactly, it was weird, maybe unfamiliar.
“I should probably go,” Choi Han said at last. “They’re waiting for me.”
He pushed himself away from the wall and turned fully toward Alberu.
And immediately, Alberu’s gaze caught on his eyes again.
Dark. Ridiculously dark. The kind of eyes that looked soft from a distance until they fixed on something directly, and then suddenly there was nothing gentle about them at all and they were fixed on Alberu.
Annoying.
Choi Han held out his hand once more.
“Good luck in the tournament.”
Alberu looked at the offered hand for a second before taking it, his grip elegant and deliberate. Then he smiled, a bright, princely sort of smile that had fooled countless reporters into thinking he was charming instead of dangerous.
“You will not be this friendly after we beat you,” he said pleasantly.
Choi Han didn’t even blink.
“That’s not happening.”
There it was again. That absolute certainty.
Not arrogance exactly, not loud enough for that. But something quieter and somehow worse: complete belief in himself. Choi Han spoke like victory was simply the natural conclusion of events. Like gold medals and first draft picks were things already waiting for him in the future.
Because, apparently, the world had decided he was hockey’s golden prodigy.
Cute.
Alberu kept smiling, though something sharper curled beneath it now.
Maybe Choi Han expected the sentiment returned. Maybe he thought this was the beginning of some respectful rivalry built on mutual admiration.
How optimistic.
Alberu released his hand first.
Then, without offering him luck in return, he turned smoothly toward the rink doors.
“Try not to disappoint me too badly,” he said over his shoulder, voice warm as sunlight and twice as dangerous.
Behind him, he heard Choi Han laugh quietly into the cold night air.
⋆꙳•̩❅*‧͙ ⋆‧͙*̩❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆. ⋆꙳•̩❅*‧͙ ⋆‧͙*̩❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆*‧͙ ⋆‧͙*̩❆ ͙͛ ˚₊
In the car, warmth slowly returned to Choi Han’s hands as the heater rattled softly through the vents. Outside, snow blurred past the windows, the rink fading into the dark behind them.
“I talked to Alberu Crossman,” he said casually from the back seat.
That immediately caught his parents’ attention.
“The Roan captain?” his father asked.
Choi Han nodded once.
“What’s he like?” his mother asked, turning slightly in her seat.
Choi Han considered the question for a moment, replaying the conversation in his head, the polished smile, the sharp tongue hidden beneath it, the absolute confidence in every glance.
“Kind of a prince,” he said finally.
His father laughed. “That bad?”
“Worse.” A faint grin tugged at Choi Han’s mouth. “He knows exactly how good he is.”
“And is he?”
Choi Han looked out the window again, watching the lights streak by against the snow.
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “He is.”
The car fell silent for a moment after that, filled only with the low hum of the heater and tires against icy roads.
Then his mother smiled faintly to herself. “Sounds like this tournament will be interesting.”
Choi Han rested his head back against the seat.
Yeah. It probably would be.
⋆꙳•̩❅*‧͙ ⋆‧͙*̩❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆. ⋆꙳•̩❅*‧͙ ⋆‧͙*̩❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆*‧͙ ⋆‧͙*̩❆ ͙͛ ˚₊
When the final buzzer sounded, the arena exploded around Team Roan.
White gloves flew onto the ice. Sticks clattered forgotten against the boards. The Roan players crashed into each other in a chaotic blur of shouting, laughter, and victory while red-and-gold flags waved wildly through the stands.
Across the rink, the Korean team stood frozen in the aftermath.
Close enough to touch the dream. Far enough to make it hurt.
Choi Han stayed near center ice for a long moment, chest heaving beneath sweat-damp equipment, staring at the scoreboard like he could force the numbers to rearrange themselves through sheer will.
One goal. That was all Alberu Crossman had needed.
The worst part was that Choi Han could already picture exactly how Alberu had looked, scoring it, smiling, probably. Calm. Like the universe had simply corrected itself into its proper shape.
The celebration finally slowed enough for officials to herd the teams into the traditional handshake line.
One last humiliation.
Choi Han shoved down the bitter twist in his chest and joined his teammates. Sportsmanship. Respect. All the things good hockey players were supposed to feel after a hard-fought game.
At that moment, he didn’t feel any of it.
He was tired, furious, and far too aware of the fact that Alberu Crossman had won.
For one thing, the Roan team had played dirty.
It wasn’t blatantly, not enough to draw penalties every time, but in all the small, infuriating ways that wore a player down over sixty minutes. Late shoves into the boards. Elbows hidden neatly in scrambles along the glass. Sticks pressing just a little too hard against ribs where referees couldn’t see.
Choi Han had hated every second of playing against them.
Which probably meant they had done their job perfectly.
And then there was Alberu Crossman himself.
That was a separate problem entirely.
Because Alberu wasn’t just good, he was absurdly good. The kind of player who controlled the pace of a game without seeming to move faster than anyone else. Every pass landed exactly where it needed to. Every decision came half a second before everyone else realized it was the right one.
Infuriatingly elegant.
Infuriatingly calm.
Infuriatingly capable.
Choi Han hated that most of all.
Over the course of the tournament, the media had practically turned their rivalry into its own event. Headlines comparing them. Analysts arguing over them. Every interview somehow circling back to Crossman versus Choi Han like the rest of the championship barely mattered.
The Ice Prince of Roan.
Korea’s Monster Rookie.
By the time Choi Han reached Alberu in the handshake line, camera flashes were already bursting around them from every direction.
Of course they were.
The media had spent the entire tournament building this moment into something larger than a simple handshake. Rival captains. Future legends. Gold and silver standing face-to-face beneath arena lights.
Choi Han could practically feel reporters salivating from the stands.
He stopped in front of Alberu and gripped his hand firmly, making sure to look him directly in the eye when he said, flat and clipped:
“Congratulations.”
Alberu’s answering smile was immediate.
Victorious.
It curled slowly across his face like he was savoring the moment down to the last detail. Sweat still dampened his hair, his gold medal already hanging against his chest, but somehow he still looked immaculate, like even triumph itself had been choreographed around him.
Then he smirked.
“See you at the draft,” he said smoothly.
They hung the silver medal around Choi Han’s neck, cold and heavy against his chest. It might as well have been dead weight for all he cared about it.
Second place.
Close enough for people to praise him. Close enough for reporters to call it an incredible effort and clap him on the shoulder and tell him he still had a brilliant future ahead of him.
None of it mattered.
Not when Alberu Crossman was standing a few feet away wearing gold.
Choi Han kept his expression carefully blank as the Roan flag was raised above the ice. Then the Roan national anthem began to play through the arena speakers, echoing across the rink while cameras flashed endlessly around the celebrating team.
He endured it.
Respectfully. Silently. Like he had been taught to.
But every note felt like another reminder of the scoreboard still burning behind him.
Across the ice, Alberu stood at the front of his team with that same composed posture he always carried, gold medal glinting beneath the arena lights. Even now, he looked perfectly at ease, as though winning had simply confirmed something he had known all along.
Arrogant asshole.
At last, the ceremony ended.
And Choi Han was finally allowed to leave the ice.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
He was supposed to lead Korea to gold on home ice. That had been the story everyone wanted, the hometown prodigy carrying his country to victory beneath screaming crowds and camera flashes, the perfect rise of Korea’s future hockey star.
People had believed in it so completely that Choi Han had started believing it too.
The expectations had settled onto his shoulders so naturally over the years that he barely noticed the weight anymore. Korea’s miracle rookie. The future number one draft pick.
Seventeen years old, and an entire country had looked at him like he was inevitable. And he had failed.
The thought hit harder now that the game was over, when there was no adrenaline left to drown it out.
He could already imagine the headlines. The analysis. The endless replay of Roan’s winning goal. Reporters talking about how close Korea had come, as though “close” meant anything at all.
Across the arena, Roan was still celebrating. Alberu Crossman stood at the center of it all effortlessly, smiling that polished, princely smile while teammates crowded around him.
As if the world had unfolded exactly according to his expectations.
Choi Han hated him a little for that. Maybe more than a little.
Every face-off against Alberu Crossman had felt like its own private war.
The referees would lower the puck, the crowd roaring around them, and Alberu would look directly at him across the small space between them—
—and smirk.
It wasn’t a wide enough smirk for anyone else to notice. Just that slight, knowing curve of his lips.
Like he had already seen the outcome of the play before it happened.
Like he was personally entertained by Choi Han trying to stop him.
It was infuriating.
Choi Han wasn’t someone who got rattled easily. Opposing players chirped at him constantly, tried to start fights, tried to get into his head because they couldn’t match him anywhere else.
Usually, it never worked.
But Alberu’s smug little smile somehow slipped past all his defenses every single time.
Maybe because it never looked forced. Alberu genuinely enjoyed provoking him.
And worse, he was good enough to back it up.
Twice during the final game, Choi Han had lost focus for half a second after catching that expression across the face-off circle. Half a second was all a player like Alberu needed.
He hated that. Hated the way Alberu seemed completely aware of it too.
By the third period, Choi Han had started avoiding looking directly at him before face-offs altogether, staring down at the puck instead.
He was almost certain Alberu noticed that too.
Maybe that was all this feeling was.
After years of being faster, stronger, better than nearly everyone he played against, maybe Choi Han had finally met someone who could stand on equal ground with him.
Someone who could keep up.
Someone who pushed back just as hard.
That was bound to feel different. Bound to get under his skin.
And Alberu Crossman was impossible to ignore once he stepped onto the ice. Every movement drew attention naturally, effortless and sharp, like the entire game tilted subtly around him whenever he played. Even his confidence felt calculated smooth enough that people followed him without realizing they were doing it.
A player like that was dangerous.
A player like that stayed in your head.
So yes. That had to be all this was.
Not the way Choi Han kept replaying every interaction with him afterward.
Not the memory of that polished smile or those sly remarks delivered in perfect calm.
Not the irritating awareness of Alberu’s eyes finding him constantly during games, like neither of them could stop tracking the other across the ice.
Rivalry. Pure, uncomplicated rivalry.
Choi Han was sure of it.
Choi Han was wrong. It hadn’t been a rivalry at all.
Or maybe it had started there, sharp-edged and furious beneath arena lights, built from bruised pride and vicious face-offs and the unbearable certainty that Alberu Crossman was the only person in the world capable of matching him stride for stride.
But it had never been just rivalry.
Choi Han understood that now, a decade too late for the realization to matter.
The truth came quietly at three in the morning, in the dark stillness of their apartment while snow fell softly beyond the windows of Korea.
Alberu was asleep in his arms.
Even after all these years, that fact occasionally felt absurd.
The great Alberu Crossman, hockey’s golden prince, media darling, owner of the most infuriating smirk ever witnessed by mankind, was curled against Choi Han’s chest wearing one of his old practice shirts and stealing most of the blankets.
Completely defenseless.
Well. As defenseless as Alberu ever got.
One elegant hand remained tangled loosely in the front of Choi Han’s shirt, fingers curled there possessively even in sleep, as though some part of him refused to risk waking up and finding empty space instead.
Ridiculous man.
Choi Han looked down at him quietly.
Without cameras or pressed suits or that polished public smile, Alberu looked younger asleep, softer around the edges. His blond hair was a mess across Choi Han’s chest, his face relaxed in a way almost nobody else ever got to witness.
Seventeen-year-old Choi Han would have found this scene impossible to imagine.
Back then, he had stood on the ice with a silver medal around his neck and convinced himself the obsession burning beneath his ribs was hatred. Competition. The natural consequence of finally meeting someone good enough to challenge him.
He had replayed Alberu’s smirk over and over in his mind after games, thought about him constantly, tracked him instinctively every time they stepped onto the ice together.
And somehow his conclusion had been:
Ah yes. Pure professional rivalry.
Idiot.
The signs seemed embarrassingly obvious now.
Because Choi Han had never once looked at another rival and memorized the shape of their smile.
He had never cared what anyone else sounded like laughing.
He had never spent years unconsciously searching crowded rooms for someone’s presence before his brain even caught up.
And he definitely had never wanted to kiss another opponent through sheer force of irritation.
But Alberu—
Alberu had gotten under his skin from the very beginning.
A soft breath stirred against Choi Han’s throat as Alberu shifted closer in his sleep, immediately seeking warmth without waking fully. Choi Han’s arm tightened around him automatically.
The movement earned him a faint mumble.
“You’re thinking too loud again,” Alberu said sleepily, voice rough and warm.
“Didn’t know you had mind reading powers,” Choi Han pointed out.
“I’m talented.”
“That’s one word for it.”
Alberu hummed softly and burrowed even closer beneath the blankets, clearly intending to go back to sleep immediately.
Choi Han looked at him for another long moment before brushing his fingers carefully through messy blond hair.
Then, quietly:
“I thought I hated you when we first met.”
Alberu cracked one eye open instantly.
Only Alberu could look smug seconds after waking up.
“And now?” he murmured.
Choi Han stared at him, the man who had spent ten years challenging him, provoking him, understanding him better than anyone else ever had.
Then he leaned down and kissed his forehead gently.
And somewhere deep inside him, seventeen-year-old Choi Han finally realized that the moment Alberu Crossman smiled at him outside that freezing rink in Seoul—
he had already lost.
⋆꙳•̩❅*‧͙ ⋆‧͙*̩❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆. ⋆꙳•̩❅*‧͙ ⋆‧͙*̩❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆*‧͙ ⋆‧͙*̩❆ ͙͛ ˚₊