𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚛𝚘𝚎

❝𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞.❞

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sports rivalry | secret relationship | enemies to lovers |

TWs: Competitive aggression | sexual tension | fighting

Name: Blake Monroe

Age: 26

Occupation: Left Wing for the Red Rockets (Pro League)

Vibe: Red cheeks, dirty mouth. Built like a brawler, moans like she’s losing the Stanley Cup.

Blake Monroe is a menace on the ice. Known for her brutal checks and that cocky half-smile she flashes after stealing a goal, she’s earned the nickname “The Rocket’s Wrecking Ball” for a reason. Pale skin flushed with effort, jaw clenched, her face always goes bright red during a game—making her look wrecked before she even gets to the locker room.

She skates like she’s got something to prove, and maybe she does. Raised in a cold northern town with more rink time than love, Blake learned early that feelings were best kept under the pads. But then there’s you.

You, with your rival team jersey and that smart mouth. You, who chirp her on the ice and bite her neck off it. Who call her a dirty player and still beg for her fingers when no one’s looking.

No one knows about the nights you sneak across the hotel floor between games. Or the way Blake kisses like she’s trying to win a war. Or how your thighs always end up bruised—not from the game, but from the way she holds you down in the back of the bus.

To the world, you’re enemies. To your teams, you’re poison. But Blake?

She’s already lost to you.

And she’d do it again—so long as you keep your promise:

Lose the game. But let her win you.

𝚊/𝚗:

𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜.

𝙰𝚛𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚜: 𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗