Page 102 of Offside Attraction

Hayes glides over to our side, effortless and controlled, like he owns the ice beneath his blades. He doesn’t say anything as he adjusts his gloves, but his dark eyes flick toward me briefly—measuring, challenging. The look says it all: keep up, or get out of my way.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath, gripping my stick tighter.

Lance, skating past with the opposing team, flashes an amused grin. “This should be fun to watch,” he calls. “Try not to kill each other out there, yeah?”

Hayes smirks, confidence sitting on him like a crown. “Relax, Lance. Miller knows how to follow orders.” His gaze slides back to me, sharp and taunting. “Don’t you?”

“Yeah,” I shoot back, my tone cold. “As long as they’re coming from Coach—not you.”

For a split second, something dark flashes in his eyes. Then the whistle blows.

“Let’s go!” Coach Rivera barks. “I want intensity! Work together, or everyone’s skating sprints after practice!”

Hayes and I lock eyes one last time before taking our positions, the tension snapping tight between us like a pulled wire.

The puck drops.

From the start, it’s obvious that skating with Hayes is going to be a battle. He’s fast—too fast—and he plays like the ice bends to his will. He holds onto the puck longer than necessary, driving plays himself, forcing the game to orbit around him. Every move feels less like teamwork and more like a power play.

“Griffin, pass!” I shout, cutting into open ice.

He ignores me. Takes the shot.

It goes wide.

My jaw clenches as I skate toward him while the play resets. “You know this is a scrimmage, right?” I snap. “Not your personal coronation.”

He brushes past me, smirk sharp as a blade. “Maybe if you kept up, I’d trust you with the puck.”

Fine.

The next play, I don’t wait for him. I steal the puck clean from the opposing team, push hard down the ice, and take the shot without even glancing his way.

The puck slams into the back of the net.

The sound is pure satisfaction.

Coach Rivera nods at me, approval clear on his face, and something in my chest loosens—just a little.

Hayes skates over, the smugness gone, his expression tight with irritation. “Nice shot,” he says, clipped. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

I step closer, meeting his glare head-on. “It’s not about being the shit, Griffin,” I say quietly. “It’s about winning.”

I lean in just enough for him to hear me over the scrape of skates and the hum of the rink. “It’s not about being the shit, Griffin. It’s about winning. Maybe you should try working with me instead of against me for once.”

The whistle blows again, cutting off whatever snarky reply he had prepared. We skate back into position, the tension between us heavier than ever. If this scrimmage is any indication, next week’s game is going to be one hell of a challenge—and not just because of the other team.

Brad, the centre in our team, faces off with Zach from the other team, and Zach wins the face-off easily, passing the puck to his team with a proud smile on his face.

Both teams are locked in a fast-paced scrimmage, the puck flying across the ice as we prepare for the homecoming game. The air is electric with focus and energy—everyone’s pushing hard, trying to prove themselves. Everyone except Hayes, apparently.

He’s been holding onto the puck like it’s his damn birthright, refusing to pass, no matter how open I am. I circle the rink, keeping my position, waiting for the puck. Hayes cuts across the ice, weaving through defensemen, and I call out, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Hayes! I’m open!”

He glances in my direction, but it’s fleeting, dismissive, like I’m not even there. Instead, he tries to take on three guys at once, predictably losing the puck in the process.

I grit my teeth and push forward, recovering the loose puck and skating it back down the ice. The tension in my chest tightens with every stride, every moment of his smug, infuriatingattitude flashing in my mind. He’s been like this since detention—acting like I don’t exist, like I’m some extra on his personal stage.

The next time he has the puck, I’m wide open again, and I call out, louder this time. “Pass the puck, Hayes!”