Page 29 of Offside Attraction

“Listen up, boys,” Coach Rivera calls. “Before we get into the scrimmage, we’re starting with skating drills. I want to test your pace, agility, and leg work.” He points toward the benches. “Blue team, take a seat. Red team, gather at the opposite goal line. On my whistle, you go.”

The blue team skates off to the penalty bench. I swallow hard, nerves crawling up my spine. It’s been a while since I’ve played, and pretending otherwise would be a lie.

I shut my eyes for a brief second and take a deep breath.

When I open them, the nerves are gone.

I glide toward the opposite goal line with the rest of the forwards, my skates cutting clean lines into the ice. I take another breath, my gaze flicking briefly to Hayes. He’s watching me—of course he is—probably hoping I’ll screw up.

I look away.

The shrill blast of the whistle sends us flying.

We sprint down the ice, skates biting hard as we push for speed, racing to the far end and back. The cold air burns my lungs, adrenaline flooding my system, muscle memory snapping into place like it never left.

Coach Rivera and Hayes stand off to the side, watching.

Skating drills are basic. Footwork. Speed. Control. I’ve done this a thousand times. My stride is strong, my edges clean. I move through backward skating, tight turns, crossovers—smooth, fast, controlled.

Some of the guys struggle. A few wobble. I don’t.

As I skate past, I catch Coach Rivera watching me, pride clear on his face. He leans toward Hayes and murmurs something in his ear just before blowing the whistle to stop us.

I meet Hayes’s eyes in time to see him roll his, a scowl pulling at his mouth.

Coach Rivera moves down the line, offering brief corrections, clapping a few guys on the shoulder. Then he stops in front of me.

“Good work, Miller,” he says, smiling. “I’m not surprised you’ve still got it.”

He gives my back a firm pat before turning to address the others.

I glance toward Hayes, who clearly heard every word.

I smirk.

He glares at me, then looks away, jaw tight.

Hayes Griffin is a phenomenal hockey player. That’s the truth, whether I like it or not. Back in middle school, they called him a god on the ice.

And they weren’t wrong.

No matter how good I am, I can’t pretend I don’t know it—I can’t compete with him. Hayes is just that good.

Which only makes his arrogance ten times worse.

I take a seat with the rest of the red team as we watch the blue team skate from end to end. Some of the guys are solid, skating clean and controlled. Others struggle—edges slipping, turns sloppy. A few move gracefully, sharp pivots and quick transitions that make it obvious they’ve been doing this a long time.

“Hey, man.”

I turn to the guy sitting beside me.

“I’m Zach. You’ve got good skating skills.”

From where we’re sitting, he looks about my height. Golden skin. Long blond hair pulled into a low man bun. Dark blue eyes. Slim nose. There’s a faint scar cutting through the edge of one eyebrow.

Good-looking. Younger.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’m Dakota.”