The air inside the Scotiabank Arena was a living thing—a pressurized, screaming wall of sound that vibrated through the marrow of Corner's bones. The smell of winter-damp wool, stale beer, and high-octane anticipation hung heavy in the rafters. Thousands of fans, a sea of Toronto blue and white clashing against the jagged gold and black of Ontario, were already at a fever pitch.
Corner stood in the mouth of the tunnel, his cleats clicking rhythmically against the concrete. The sound was sharp, like a countdown. His heart felt like a trapped bird beating against his ribs, but his face was a mask of cold, unyielding marble. He hadn't slept—not really. His dreams had been a fractured montage of rooftop shadows and the memory of a number whispered in the dark.
He adjusted his captain's armband, the elastic biting into his bicep. He felt raw. Exposed. Every time a camera flashed in the distance, he felt like they were seeing the shame of the night before, the way he'd crumbled in his own bed.
"Cap? You good?"
It was Miller, his flanker, a man built like a brick wall with a heart of gold. Miller was bouncing on the balls of his feet, his face streaked with war paint.
"I'm ready," Corner said, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. "Let's go."
As they marched out onto the pitch, the roar intensified until it was a physical weight pressing against his eardrums. The bright stadium lights were blinding, reflecting off the damp, manicured grass. And there, standing at the center of the field like a monolith, was the Ontario Rugby Club.
At the head of the line stood Henry.
If Corner looked like he hadn't slept, Henry looked like he had spent the night in a war room. He looked lethal. The black and gold jersey seemed to absorb the light around him. His jaw was set so tight it looked like it might crack, and his eyes—those dark, piercing eyes—were already locked onto the tunnel.
The moment their gazes met across the fifty-yard line, the rest of the world vanished. The screaming fans, the flashing lights, the officials—it all blurred into a grey static. It was just the two of them, the captain of Toronto and the captain of Ontario, standing in the wreckage of their secrets.
The head official, a stout man with a whistle hanging from a lanyard, beckoned them to the center of the pitch. Corner forced his legs to move. Each step felt like wading through deep water. He could feel the eyes of the nation on him, the commentators in the booths high above dissecting his every movement.
Henry met him at the halfway mark. There was no trace of the joking man from the rooftop. He looked at Corner with a cold, predatory focus that made the hair on Corner's neck stand up.
"Captains," the official said, his voice barely audible over the din. "Gentlemen, you know the rules. I want a clean game. No late hits, no high tackles. Represent your clubs with honor. Corner, as the home captain, you call it."
The official held up a silver coin.
Henry stepped a fraction closer. He was encroaching on Corner's personal space, a classic intimidation tactic, It made his stomach do a slow, agonizing flip.
"Heads," Corner said, his voice steady despite the chaos inside him.
The official flicked the coin. It spun in the air, a silver blur against the black sky. In that split second, Henry leaned in, his voice a low, jagged whisper that only Corner could hear beneath the roar of the crowd.
"You didn't come," Henry muttered.
Corner's heart stopped. He stared at the official, his pulse thundering in his ears. He didn't look at Henry. He couldn't.
"You stayed in your room like a good little boy," Henry continued, his tone dripping with a dark, possessive mockery. "Did you spend the night thinking about what I'd do to you? Did you imagine me in that room, Corner?"
The coin hit the grass.
"Heads," the official announced. "Toronto's ball. Corner, which way are you playing?"
Corner swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. He pointed toward the North stand, his hand trembling so slightly he hoped only Henry noticed. "North," he managed to say.
Henry stood his ground, forcing the official to step around him. He looked Corner up and down, a slow, scanning gaze that felt like a physical touch. His lip curled into a shadow of a smile—the smile of a hunter who knew the prey was already wounded.
"You look tired, Captain," Henry whispered, his eyes narrowing. " I hope you're ready to be flattened, because I'm not holding back."
Corner finally looked him in the eye. The fear was there, but beneath it, a spark of the old rivalry flared to life. "I'm not afraid of you, Henry. Talk is cheap. Let's see what you've got when the whistle blows."
Henry's expression shifted, the mockery replaced by a sudden, intense heat. He stepped even closer, his chest nearly brushing Corner's. "Oh, you'll see. I'm going to put you in the dirt so many times you'll forget your own name. And when you're looking up at me from the grass, remember—you chose this."
The official blew a short, sharp blast on his whistle, signaling the end of the toss. "Positions, gentlemen! Let's get this started!"
Henry turned on his heel, his movements sharp and aggressive. He jogged back toward his team, barking orders, his presence commanding the entire half of the field. Corner watched him go, his hands balling into fists.
He walked back to his own line, the Toronto players patting him on the back, shouting encouragement. But Corner felt like he was in a vacuum. He looked up at the giant screen above the stadium. There they were—the split-screen shot of the two captains. Henry looked like a king ready for war. Corner looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff.
He took his position, crouching low, his fingers brushing the damp blades of grass. He could feel Henry's eyes on him from across the divide. The air was electric, the tension so thick it felt like it might spontaneously combust.
The official raised the whistle to his lips. The stadium went silent for one heartbeat—a collective intake of breath from thirty thousand people.