Page 119 of Offside Attraction

“Getting tired?” he taunts, flicking the puck between his skates. “You’re slowing down.”

“Funny,” I snap, closing in. “You’re the one breathing hard.”

His grin flashes quick and dangerous before he spins—too smooth, too practiced. I lunge, barely stealing the puck at the last second. Instead of backing off, he moves closer, crowding my space, his smirk shifting into something darker. Intentional.

Playful.

“You always this easy to bait?” he asks, leaning on his stick as I pause at center ice.

I roll my eyes, forcing my focus back onto the game, but then his tone shifts—quieter, deliberate, like he’s stepping somewhere dangerous.

“You remember that summer at camp?”

I freeze for half a second, my grip tightening around my stick. “What about it?”

Hayes shrugs, skating backward in an unhurried circle. “That stupid three-legged race. You tripped over my foot, and we both face-planted in front of everyone.”

A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it, the memory hitting hard and fast. Middle school. Before everything went to shit. “You tripped me,” I say. “Your big-ass feet got tangled in the rope.”

He chuckles, shoulders shaking. “I still say you dragged me down on purpose.”

“You wish,” I mutter, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. For a brief moment, the ice feels less hostile. The air between us eases, just enough to breathe.

“Back then,” Hayes says suddenly, his gaze fixed everywhere but me, “you were really good on the ice.”

I glance at him.

He bites his bottom lip, caught in the memory. “You were shy. Quiet. Always kept your head down.” His voice drops. “But the second you stepped onto the ice… it was like you becamesomeone else. Confident. Fearless. Like nothing could touch you.”

Something tightens in my chest.

That boy feels like a lifetime ago.

“Yeah, well,” I say, gripping my stick harder, grounding myself, “you took that away from me. Remember?” My jaw clenches. “You made me quit. Made me lie to my family and say I just didn’t care about hockey anymore.”

His smirk falters.

For the first time tonight, Hayes looks unsettled.

His gaze drops to the ice, his stick dragging as he skates a slow, distracted circle. “I didn’t make you quit,” he says quietly. “You chose to leave.”

I laugh—short, bitter, sharp enough to echo off the boards. I pull off my helmet and let it drop onto the ice. “Yeah. Ichoseto leave after you made every practice hell. After you and your friends decided I was your personal punching bag.” I step closer. “Don’t act like you don’t remember.”

He flinches.

Good.

He removes his helmet too, tossing it aside like it suddenly weighs too much. “Look,” he says, tension bleeding into his voice. “I was a kid. I didn’t know what I was doing half the time. I—”

“Save it, Hayes,” I snap, cutting him off. “You knew exactly what you were doing.” My chest burns. “Fuck’s sake, you got off from it. And you never even apologized for what you did.”

The silence that follows is heavy—no crowd, no whistles, just the scrape of skates and everything we’ve never said hanging between us like a blade.

His jaw tightens, and for a moment I’m sure he’s going to argue. But instead, he exhales slowly, shoulders sagging just a fraction.

“You’re right,” he says, so quietly it almost gets swallowed by the empty rink. “I was a dick back then.” He hesitates, eyes flicking to mine before dropping to the ice again. “I’m sorry.”

The words hit harder than I expect.