Page 3 of Devil on Skates

XAVIER

THE PUCK SLIPS PAST my stick again, the second time this morning. I reach for it, overcorrect, and end up hitting the ice hard on one knee.

“Gallagher! Wake the fuck up!” Coach Marshall’s voice booms across the rink, and yeah, I definitely earned that one.

I push up, my jaw tight, my knee stinging like hell. A few guys snicker behind me, but I block it out. Normally, focus isn’t my issue. I’m good at shutting everything out when I’m on the ice. That’s part of what makes me valuable out here and what keeps my dad off my back.

But not today, because my brain keeps drifting back to last night.

To her. The girl with enchanting eyes who disappeared on me like a ghost, as if she never existed.

“Again!” Coach’s whistle brings me out of my thoughts.

We reset. I force myself to lock in, my eyes on the puck and tracking every pass. When it finally comes my way, I handle it cleanly and send a crisp pass to Ian on the wing. No mistakes, just muscle memory.

It should calm me down, but it doesn’t. The second the drill ends, I’m right back in my head again.

I don’t even know what her name is. But I remember her haunted eyes and a smile that didn’t quite reach them. No idea where she’s from, what she studies, or what college she attends.

During the water break, Ronan skates up, already grinning. “Looking rough today, Captain. Late night?”

“Something like that.” I take a long drink, hoping he’ll drop it.

“Must’ve been a hell of a time. You’re never off your game.”

“I’m fine.”

He laughs, taps my shoulder with his stick, and skates off. “Just don’t let Coach catch on.”

Yeah, too late for that.

Coach has been side-eyeing me all morning. Usually that’s enough to snap me back into line. My dad and Coach? Basically the same guy. All about results and discipline. Zero tolerance for bullshit. I’ve spent my whole life trying to meet their expectations, which always feel just out of reach.

But even that kind of pressure isn’t enough to ground me today.

We move into scrimmage drills. I do okay, without major screw-ups, but I’m not playing like myself. The physical grind finally pushes the mystery girl to the background for a bit, which helps.

At least until we’re in the locker room.

“Fuck, Gallagher!” Ian blurts out as I peel off my jersey. “What the hell happened to your back?”

I glance in the mirror and see the long red scratches running down from my shoulders and over my back. Yeah, they’re still there, which is impressive. My mystery girl has vicious nails.

“Looks like someone had fun,” Ronan says, and laughs. “Wildcat, huh?”

I can’t help smirking. “Something like that.”

The rest of the team howls and whistles.

Ronan snorts. “And here I thought you were just having a bad hangover. No wonder your head’s not in the game.”

“I’m fine,” I repeat, but it comes out flat.

“Oh yeah? Then why did Coach yell your name five times during the drills?”

And he would’ve yelled even more, but he was glued to his phone for some reason.

“Lucky break,” Ian says. “Another ten minutes and he would’ve had you doing suicides ‘til sunset.”

The guys drift off into weekend plans and lunch spots, but I tune them out. I’m on autopilot now, changing clothes, packing gear, and pretending everything’s normal. But my thoughts keep spinning back to her.

Why? I’ve had hookups before. Some good, and some forgettable. But none of them stuck with me like this. None of them haunted me.

Is it just because she kind of vanished later? Or the way she got it—my need to escape—without me having to explain it?

Or maybe it’s just the fact that she left without saying goodbye.

“Gallagher, you good?” Ronan waves a hand in front of my face.

“Yeah.” I zip up my bag. “What were you saying?”

“Lunch. You in?”

I check the time. “Nah. I have a class I need to get to.”

“All work, no play,” he teases.

“Says the guy who was at the same party.”

He grins. “Yeah, but I can handle my distractions. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

He’s not wrong. Between the late night and thinking about Irina way more than I should be, I feel totally off-balance. If my dad could see me now, he’d lose his mind.

He’s always preaching the same thing.

A Gallagher doesn’t waste potential. Excellence isn’t optional.

I haul my gear bag onto my shoulder and head outside, already planning out the rest of my day. There’s no room for distractions.

Coach is standing outside the building, glancing at his watch, which isn’t weird. But walking toward him is her .

I freeze.

It’s my mystery girl. But this time she has a ponytail, and she’s wearing a simple black dress, with none of last night’s glitter.

It’s definitely her. There’s no doubt about it.

When she reaches him, she smiles. Casual. Familiar.

My heart stutters. I duck behind a tree without thinking, watching them talk like they’ve known each other for years.

What’s going on?

I run through the possible scenarios. Is she a student-athlete? Maybe a family friend? But Coach doesn’t like to spend his precious time talking with random students. Something’s off.

They start walking as they keep talking. I do something I instantly regret: ditch my bag behind a bush and follow them.

Insane? Yeah. But curiosity has me by the throat.

They don’t go too far and take a seat at a restaurant just off campus. It’s fancy and expensive enough that not many students go there, so this isn’t the usual coach-student lunch.

I find a good hiding spot behind a wall and wait. A few minutes later, a tall, dark-haired guy joins them. He’s well-dressed, slick, and looks like he has money. He seems familiar too.

I squint, trying to place him. No luck.

The guy shakes Coach’s hand, and then he leans in and kisses my girl on the cheek. It’s polite and respectful, but I instantly hate it.

My hand moves on its own. I snap a few quick photos with my phone, hoping I can figure out who they all are and why they’re hanging out like this with my coach.

The guy sits next to my mystery girl. No touching and no couple-y vibes, but still, it’s weird.

I leave before they can spot me, my head spinning as I walk back to the campus. I should be in class and getting my life together. But instead, I rush to my dorm and open my laptop, my fingers flying over the keyboard.

Once I upload the images, I try reverse-searching their faces. After a few dead ends, I find her.

Irina Marshall. My coach’s daughter.

I rake my fingers through my hair. Fuck!

Her profile’s low-key. She has a few tagged photos, and one of her at a campus event. A few at a coffee shop with friends. A formal gala shot. All clean and classy, and not much else. She’s attending the college across town, so no wonder I haven’t seen her around here.

I dig deeper and find the guy who was at the restaurant.

Keith Costello is the son of Noel Costello, who owns the pro hockey team Stonebrook Shadows and runs Costello Investment Group. Fuck. The guy was in the sports mag photo, and that’s where I’ve seen him before.

So what does he want with Irina? Or Coach?

I keep scrolling. Keith’s socials are exactly what I expect—jets, yachts, hockey games, and luxury vacations. No sign of Irina anywhere.

If they’re together, they’re keeping it quiet. But honestly, it doesn’t look like they are.

I’m the one who made her moan yesterday, not him. So why were they at lunch? Why was Coach there?

Sure, Costello probably has a lot of influence in the hockey world that Coach could use somehow, but the whole thing seems weird. If Irina was dating Keith, then why was she alone at the party? They definitely didn’t look in love, so maybe there’s something else.

By now I’ve missed two classes, and I don’t even care.

Back on her profile, I start liking every post from the past year. All of them. One by one.

Then I hover over the message box.

This is a bad idea, but I type anyway.

Hey, stranger. Miss me yet?

I hit send, then toss my phone on the bed like it’s going to burn me.

What the fuck am I doing?

I don’t chase girls, skip class, or stalk people across town like some lovesick idiot.

But here I am, and it’s all because of her.

I’m hooked now, and I don’t know what to do about it. Or if I want to.