One Week With the Enemy

The crowd inside the hockey arena was absolutely wild.

Screams echoed across the cold air, bouncing off the walls and vibrating in the chest like bass from a concert speaker. Teenage girls, college students, even a few wild aunties—they were all swooning, holding up homemade signs with glitter and LED lights. Everyone had their favorite player. Their bias. Their future imaginary husband.

But before the game could begin, the spotlight shifted.

A voice boomed from the speaker system. “Make some noise for your very own UNIVERSITY CHEER SQUAD!”

Cue the bass drop.

From the far end of the rink, a group of cheerleaders skated out—not on blades, but with fierce steps in white boots, performing along the perimeter where the ice met the safety barriers. And leading the pack like a goddess descending from Mount Olympus?

Anastacia Valez.

Campus superstar. TikTok legend. The girl who could make your GPA drop just by walking past you in slow motion.

She stepped forward with her squad behind her, brown eyes sparkling beneath the arena lights. Her long dark brown hair was in a high ponytail, swishing like it had its own attitude. Petite at 5′4, with a dancer’s physique—graceful but deadly. Her cheer uniform hugged her curves perfectly, but never tastelessly. Her smile was sweet, but the fire in her eyes screamed, “I run this place.”

Then the music hit.

A heavy, crowd-pumping dance anthem roared through the speakers. The choreography exploded.

Anastacia spun into a high kick, her arms slicing the air with perfect precision. The girls behind her mirrored her movements like a sea of power. She dropped low, body rolling into the beat, hair flipping over her shoulder. Then she popped up, clapped overhead, and led the squad into a ripple effect—like dominos dancing in sync.

“Let’s go, Blades! LET’S! GO!” she shouted into the mic strapped to her cheek, hips swaying.

She twirled, pointed to the student section. “Who’s ready to WIN?!”

The crowd lost it. Utter chaos. Popcorn flew. Phones were out. Flashing. Recording.

By the time their number ended, it wasn’t just a performance—it was a whole moment.

And right on cue, as the girls finished their pose with fists raised and skates stomped, the doors on the far end burst open again.

Now it was time.

The university’s hockey team skated in like rockstars. Shoulder pads, sticks tapping the ice, helmets gleaming. They circled the rink once to thunderous applause.

And then the noise went nuclear.

Because out skated him.

Tristan Maddox.

The team’s center. Their MVP. And according to every thirst tweet ever posted under the school’s hashtag, the real reason some girls even came to the games.

Tall didn’t even cut it. The man was 6′9" of raw muscle. His jersey looked painted on. Every movement was fluid but powerful—like he could crush steel between his fingers. The way his skates cut through the ice? Lethal.

He spotted Anastacia waiting by the side with the rest of the cheer team. Without breaking stride, he skated toward her, grinning.

“Hey, superstar,” he said, voice low, teasing.

Before she could sass back, he wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her close.

The crowd gasped—then screamed.

He pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. “For good luck.”

Someone from the team shouted from the rink, “GET A ROOM, YOU TWO!”

Dustin, the team’s goalie, was cackling behind his mask.

Tristan flipped him off playfully and skated backward toward his team, eyes never leaving Anastacia. “That kiss better work,” he called.

She winked. “It always does.”

Then the game began.

But not against just anyone. The rival university was tough. Fast. Aggressive. The kind of team that didn’t care about showmanship—only about crushing skulls.

But Tristan? He was hungry.

From the first puck drop, he was a blur. Winning face-offs like they were staged. Dodging defenders. Stealing the puck. Setting up plays.

“Watch the left!” one of their wingers shouted.

Too late.

Tristan flew up the right flank, passed two players like they were traffic cones, and flicked the puck across the ice so smoothly, it looked like it was magnetically drawn into the net.

“GOOOAAALLL!” the announcer screamed.

The arena erupted.

One of the rival defensemen tried to slam into him mid-rink—Tristan didn’t flinch. He absorbed the hit, used the momentum, and body-checked the guy into the boards. Legal. Clean. Brutal.

“Damn,” Dustin muttered from the net. “He’s in beast mode.”

Anastacia was back in the cheer corner, eyes glued to Tristan. He wasn’t just good. He was ridiculous. Like watching Thor play ice chess.

Second period came. Another goal. This time a slapshot so loud, it echoed like a gunshot.

Third period. The score was tight. 3-2.

One minute on the clock.

The puck bounced off the rival goalie’s pad and spun wild into the zone.

“Tristan, NOW!” someone screamed.

He darted in like lightning. One quick deke. One feint.

BAM.

Top shelf.

4-2.

And that was the game.

As the final buzzer rang, the players dropped their sticks and huddled together in celebration.

Tristan skated toward the side, searching the crowd.

Anastacia was already running—well, as much as one could in boots on ice.

He caught her, lifted her off the ground, spun her.

“Told you the kiss would work,” he whispered.

She grinned, heart thundering. “Show-off.”

The arena lights dimmed, but the electricity didn’t fade. Everyone was high on victory.

But somewhere in the back, leaning in the shadows, watching the scene with unreadable eyes...

Another player from the rival team stood.

Tall. Sharp-eyed. Smirking.

He saw Anastacia. She hadn’t seen him yet.

Not yet.

But soon.

And he remembered her.

Oh, he definitely remembered her.

After the game, the locker room was buzzing with celebration. The players were laughing, teasing each other as they peeled off their sweat-drenched jerseys and changed into dry clothes. The energy was electric—victory did that to people.

“Dude, did you see their faces when we scored that last goal?” one of the players snorted.

“They looked like someone stole their lunch money.”

“Poor guys, maybe next time they should bring a goalie who can actually block a shot.”

The whole team erupted into laughter, not bothering to hide their amusement.

Anastacia heard it all from just outside the doorway. She leaned against the cool cement wall, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. She wasn’t a sore winner, but she was raised better than to mock someone who already lost.

“Tris, cut it out,” she said firmly as she stepped into the locker room. Her tone was calm, but her eyes said otherwise. “They already lost. Do you really need to rub it in?”

Tristan glanced at her, still grinning as he tossed a towel over his shoulder. “What? We’re just joking around. Lighten up, babe.”

“Joking around?” Her brows furrowed. “You think it’s funny to laugh at people when they’re down?”

The smile dropped from his face. Just like that, the room shifted. Some of the guys awkwardly cleared their throats and turned away, pretending to busy themselves with their bags. They knew that tone. This wasn’t the first time.

“What’s your deal, Ana?” Tristan said, voice low, the grin replaced by a sharp edge. “Whose side are you even on? We won. Our university name is what we carry on our backs. And you’re feeling sorry for the losers?”

She blinked, stunned.

“They deserved that loss,” he went on, voice rising. “Maybe if they actually played like they wanted to win, it would’ve been a fair fight. But they didn’t. So don’t come here and act like you’re some moral compass.”

Then, without another word, he stormed out—shoulder brushing roughly against hers.

The room went silent for a beat. No one dared say anything. They were used to this—Anastacia and Tristan’s little blowouts—but it still sucked the air out of the room every time.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Anastacia turned and walked out in the opposite direction. Her vision blurred slightly as she made her way outside, the cool evening air hitting her like a slap. It helped, a little. She needed space. She needed to breathe.

She found a quiet corner near the field where the distant lights still flickered. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not the squad. Not her coach. Not even herself.

Two years. Two years with Tristan Maddox and somehow, it still felt like she was walking on eggshells half the time. She didn’t know when exactly the spark started flickering out. Maybe it was gradual. Maybe it was always like this, but she was too smitten to see it.

Then a familiar voice cut through the fog of her thoughts.

“Another fight?” said Gianna softly, standing a few feet away.

Anastacia gave a tired chuckle. “What else is new?”

Gianna stepped closer and flopped down beside her, legs stretched out. “Well, there’s a party tonight. Celebration and all. You going?”

Anastacia sighed. “I don’t think so.”

“What? No. Not allowed.” Gianna pointed a finger dramatically. “We’re not just celebrating their win, you know. Our performance was fire, and I refuse to let you mope in silence when we slayed out there.”

“Gi, I’ll probably end up crying in the middle of the dance floor,” Anastacia mumbled, lips twitching into a reluctant smile.

“And that’s exactly why we’ll stick to you like glue. No crying alone. If you do cry, we’ll cry together. While drinking soda and judging everyone’s outfits.”

That made Anastacia laugh for real, a soft little sound that melted some of the heaviness in her chest.

“Fine, fine. Like I can ever say no to you.”

Gianna grinned in triumph. “That’s the spirit.”

Anastacia leaned her head on her best friend’s shoulder. “You don’t even like Tristan, do you?”

Gianna snorted. “I tolerate Tristan because you love him. That’s the most I can give. But if he ever makes you cry for real? Like, mascara-down-your-chin cry? Just say the word. I have a hit list.”

Anastacia laughed again, wrapping her arms around Gianna in a tight hug.

Gianna Valencia, always had her back. Even if she didn’t agree with her choices. Even when she couldn’t stand the guy she was dating. She was the kind of friend who showed up, no matter what.

And right now, Anastacia didn’t need a lecture. She just needed someone to remind her that she wasn’t alone.