Page 123 of Offside Attraction

Dakota Miller. The one person I taught myself to hate because it was easier than admitting the truth.

Four years ago, I hurt him.

The memory hits me without warning—summer camp, the shed, the look on his face when he realized he’d trusted the wrong person. I see it every time I close my eyes. The fear. The confusion. The way he shrank into himself after, like something precious had been ripped out and stomped on.

I told myself I was angry. That he pushed me. That I was protecting myself.

Bullshit.

I was scared.

Scared of the way my chest tightened when he smiled at me. Scared of how close I wanted to be to him. Scared that one kiss back then made me feel seen in a way nothing else ever had.

So I did what cowards do.

I destroyed it.

And I’ve hated myself for it ever since.

My fingers curl into fists at my sides. I told him I was sorry—and I meant it—but sorry doesn’t touch the damage I did. It doesn’t undo the nights I lay awake replaying it, wondering what would’ve happened if I hadn’t panicked. If I hadn’t chosen cruelty over truth.

And now this.

Now he kissed me back like he’d been holding onto that moment too, like it haunted him the same way it haunted me.

That’s what scares me the most.

Not that I want him.

That Ialready hadhim once—and I ruined it.

I press my tongue against my teeth, jaw aching as I replay the way he pulled away, the look in his eyes like he’d just lost a fight he didn’t want to win. He thinks this is just another game to me. Another way for me to fuck with his head.

If only he knew.

If only he knew that the second he walked away, something in me cracked wide open. That I’ve never felt less like a king than I do right now—standing alone in my own damn rink, realizing I don’t want the crown if it means losing him again.

I don’t know what this makes me.

I don’t know what I’m allowed to want.

I don’t deserve him.

But that doesn’t stop the hunger.

Thelockerroomsmellslike sweat and rubber and metal—normal, grounding things. I peel off my gloves, my jersey, my pads, each piece hitting the bench harder than it needs to. My hands won’t stop shaking.

Get it together.

I sit there longer than necessary, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor while my pulse refuses to slow. Every time I close my eyes, I feel him again—the way he shoved me, the way his anger cracked open into something raw and electric. The way he kissed back.

That’s the part that won’t let go.

Nothing prepared me for this.

For the way my body leaned toward him like it already knew. The way stopping felt impossible, like pulling away from a cliff edge after already stepping off.

I shove my feet into my shoes and stand, grabbing my bag. I don’t linger. If I stay any longer, I might do something stupid—like chase after him. Like say something I can’t take back.