The morning air in Toronto was a jagged blade of frost, cutting through the thin layers of Corner's athletic gear as he pounded the pavement. It was barely 5:30 AM, the city still draped in a bruised purple haze of pre-dawn light. Most people were still tucked under warm duvets, but Corner didn't have that luxury. The rivalry between the Toronto Rugby Club and the Ontario Rugby Club wasn't just a game; it was a blood feud that had spanned for three years, and the upcoming match was the precipice of his entire season.
His lungs burned, a raw, searing heat that contrasted with the biting wind. Every breath felt like swallowing crushed glass. One more mile, he told himself, his sneakers slapping against the asphalt in a rhythmic, punishing cadence. One more mile to prove you're faster than them. Faster than him.
His muscles were screaming, lactic acid pooling in his thighs until they felt like lead. He had pushed himself too hard, fueled by the haunting image of the Ontario captain's smug face during their last press conference. Corner's vision began to blur at the edges, the world tilting slightly. His foot caught on a jagged lip of a frost-heaved sidewalk—a split-second lapse in concentration—and suddenly, the ground rushed up to meet him.
He hit the concrete hard.
The impact jarred his teeth and sent a shockwave of pain through his shoulder and palms. Corner let out a strangled groan, rolling onto his side as the world spun. He didn't try to get up immediately. He couldn't. He was simply too exhausted, his body finally staging a coup against his relentless willpower. He lay there, staring at a discarded coffee cup in the gutter, his chest heaving in ragged, desperate gulps.
Then, through the ringing in his ears, he heard the steady, methodical thud of approaching footsteps. They were controlled, powerful, and infuriatingly rhythmic.
"That looked like it hurt," a voice drawled from above him. It was a voice like gravel over silk—deep, resonant, and dripping with an effortless authority that Corner recognized instantly.
A shadow fell over him, blocking out the dim streetlamps. A hand appeared in his field of vision, palm open, fingers strong and calloused. "Hand me your hand. Let's get you up before you freeze to the pavement."
Corner's blood went cold, then boiled. He knew that voice. He knew that cadence. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head and looked up. Standing over him, clad in high-end black compression gear that showed off every sculpted muscle of his athletic frame, was Henry. The captain of the Ontario Rugby Club. The man who had been the primary antagonist of Corner's professional life for three years.
Corner ignored the hand. He gritted his teeth, his jaw aching from the tension. "I'm fine," he spat, the words coming out as a wheeze. "I don't need your help."
Henry crouched down, his movements fluid and predatory, bringing his face inches away from Corner's. Up close, Henry was devastatingly handsome in a way that felt unfair. His skin was flushed from his own run, a light sheen of sweat making him glow in the dim light. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned Corner's face with a clinical intensity.
"You've always been strange, Corner," Henry murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate vibration. "Why so tense? You're acting like a boy shying away from his first crush. It's pathetic."
"Go to hell," Corner snapped, trying to push himself up, but his arms gave out, leaving him hovering just inches off the ground.
Henry chuckled, a dark, dry sound. "Is it the rivalry? Is that what has you so wound up? If your hatred is born from the fact that I'm the better player, that I lead the better team, then I understand. Competition does strange things to the ego."
He leaned in closer, his scent—a mix of expensive deodorant and cold air—filling Corner's senses. "But if it's from... other things... then you should try mentioning them to me. Maybe I could help you out. Clear up some of that bottled-up frustration."
Corner's breath hitched. He hated the way Henry looked at him—like he was a puzzle to be solved, or a territory to be conquered.
"Because right now," Henry continued, his gaze dropping to Corner's mouth before snapping back to his eyes, "you're staring at me like you want to devour me. Those eyes that are already eye-fucking me? They aren't sexy at all. You should really try hiding what you're thinking. It makes you look desperate."
"I am not—I don't—!" Corner's face erupted in a heat that had nothing to do with the morning run. He surged upward, fueled by a sudden, violent burst of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated rage.
He made it to his feet, but his legs were still jelly. He stumbled back, the world tilting dangerously. He was about to crack his skull against a brick wall when Henry's hands shot out, gripping Corner's biceps with the strength of iron bands.
"Easy there, star player," Henry whispered, pulling Corner flush against his chest to stabilize him. Corner could feel the rhythmic thud of Henry's heart against his own ribcage. It was steady. Mockingly steady.
"I know exactly who you are, Corner," Henry said, his voice a faint of a sound against Corner's ear. "You can't hide from me."
Henry glanced around the deserted street. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant hum of the city waking up. He looked back at Corner, his expression unreadable, then suddenly leaned in.
It wasn't a romantic kiss. It was a claim. A sharp, bruising press of lips against lips that lasted only a heartbeat. It was cold, calculated, and terrifyingly brief.
Before Corner could even register the touch, Henry broke away, shoving Corner back so he was leaning against the wall. Henry stood tall, his face returning to that mask of chilled indifference. He pulled a hand across his mouth, rubbing his lips vigorously as if trying to erase the very memory of the contact.
"Disgusting," Henry said, his voice flat and devoid of the earlier heat. "I don't know what you fancy about me, but let's get one thing clear: you will never get it. You're a rival, nothing more. Try to keep your head in the game, or I'll crush you on the pitch."
Without another word, Henry turned on his heel and started running in the opposite direction, his pace perfectly maintained, leaving Corner alone in the cold, gasping for air and touching his lips in stunned, horrified silence.