Craving The Enemy

CHAPTER ONETYLERTyler Reyes – National Championship FinalNorthbridge Hawks vs Silverhollow StormThe arena was shaking. Deafening. The kind of loud that rattled inside your chest.“Thirty seconds!” Coach’s voice thundered behind me.I gripped my stick tighter, my gloves damp with sweat. My heart thudded like a war drum.One–one. Final period. Championship game.Twenty thousand people screaming from the stands, but I only saw him.Mason Grant.Silverhollow’s golden boy. Big, tattooed, fast as hell.Wearing that stupid cocky grin. Like he already knew he’d win.Not tonight. No fucking way.“Eyes on the puck, Reyes,” Malik snapped, skating to my left.“I am on the puck,” I muttered.“No, you’re on Grant.”I didn’t answer. Because yeah, I was.Grant had the puck now, weaving past center ice. Fluid, sharp, stupidly smooth.God, I hated how good he was.“He’s coming left!” I shouted. “Double him!”I lunged forward, blade stretched out——caught the edge of his stick——but he spun, dropped

CHAPTER 3TYLER The dining room smelled like garlic fried rice, eggs, longganisa.I sat at the head of the table, still half-sore from yesterday’s game. My shoulders ached. My jaw still clenched from him.I hadn’t checked my phone since the club. I didn’t want to see anything. Especially not that photo.The maids moved around quietly. The plates were warm. My coffee was untouched.And then—The voice. “You’re up early.”I looked up.My father walked in, all crisp polo and pressed slacks like he’d just stepped out of a business ad. Not a hair out of place. Always controlled. Always powerful.“Morning, Pa,” I said softly.He sat down across from me and gave a tight nod. “How’s your back?” “Fine.”“Your team played well. But you let your guard down. That Grant boy—he’s the one who scored?”I tensed. “Yeah.”“He’s gotten fast. I'm proud.”I said nothing.He took a slice of mango and placed it on his plate with precision. Everything he did was precise. Like the world had to obey him.

HAPTER 5Tyler “Coach, come on,” I said, trailing him like a desperate puppy as he went down the list. “Room assignments can’t be final. You can’t do this to me.”Coach didn’t even slow down. “You’re a grown man, Reyes. You can share four walls with another grown man without combusting.”“That’s debatable,” I muttered. “Switch me with literally anyone. I’ll take the guy who snores like a chainsaw. I’ll take the guy who watches horror movies at three a.m. Just not him.”“Request denied.”I groaned loud enough to make heads turn.Malik gave me a pity pat on the shoulder. “Rest in peace, man.” He looked over at Liam who was smirking like the devil. “Guess it’s you and me then.”“Room twelve, baby,” Liam said, holding up his key card like it was a trophy. “No drama, no enemies. Just peace and Netflix.”“Rot in hell,” I told them.They both laughed, slapped my back, and walked off, already debating what snacks to raid from the retreat pantry.Then Mason Grant strolled past like the univer

CHAPTER 7TYLER“Tyler, tell me you didn’t just lose.”I dropped my stick into my bag and shot Malik a look. “Shut up.”Liam groaned loud enough for the entire rink to hear. “You were our only hope, man.”“You guys are being dramatic.”“We had money on you,” Malik said, pointing accusingly.“Money?”“Yeah,” Liam cut in, “we put fifty each on you taking Mason down.”I blinked. “You bet on me?”“Of course,” Malik said, all righteous indignation. “You’re our boy. You were supposed to humiliate him. Instead—”“Instead, I humiliated you,” a voice said smoothly from behind.We all turned. Mason was walking past, gear slung over one shoulder, hair damp with sweat, smirk firmly in place.He didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow. Just let his eyes meet mine for half a second before he kept moving.“Asshole,” Malik muttered.“Gorgeous asshole,” Liam corrected.“I didn’t hear that,” I said.“Pay up, boys.”We looked over to see Avery standing there, palm out, grin wide.Malik’s brows furrowed. “Pay up f

CHAPTER 9TYLERThe shrill ring of my phone dragged me out of sleep.I groaned, fumbling for it on the nightstand. “Hello?”“Tyler.” My father’s voice was sharp, clipped.I sat up. “Dad? What—”“Check your messages.”The line went dead.My stomach sank as I swiped to my texts.One message from him, all caps in my head even though he hadn’t typed it that way:You’re embarrassing this family.Attached was a link.I clicked it.The headline read: Rivals? Or Something More? Mason Grant and Tyler Reyes Heat Up the Dance FloorBelow was the photo — Mason behind me, his hands low on my hips, our bodies pressed close, my head tilted just enough that it looked… intimate.Which, technically, it was.I dropped the phone like it had burned me.Behind me, Mason’s voice was annoyingly chipper. “Morning, pretty boy.”I didn’t answer.He strolled past shirtless, towel slung around his neck. “So… we made the news.”I glared at the wall. “Don’t talk to me.”“Come on, it’s not that bad. We look hot.”“I