Page 45 of Offside Attraction

I push myself harder, matching Lance’s pace, feeling the ice respond beneath my blades. With every stride, my body remembers—muscle memory snapping into place.

After warm-ups, Coach calls us back in.

“Today, we’re working on passing and positioning,” he says. “I want to see how you handle pressure. Griffin—you’re running the drills.”

All eyes shift to Hayes.

He steps forward, effortless and composed, like he was born in the center of attention. The way he carries himself—it’s infuriating. Like gravity bends around him, pulling everyone else into his orbit.

I shove the thought away. I’m here to play hockey. Not to think about him. Not to remember the past.

We break into pairs, and I’m matched with Zach. He’s solid but a little tense, hands tight on his stick.

“Relax,” I mutter. “Trust your passes.”

He nods, and we get into it—short, quick exchanges, the puck moving cleanly between us.

“Nice pass, Dakota!” Coach Rivera calls from the sidelines.

A spark of pride flares in my chest before I can stop it.

Maybe I reallydobelong here.

After several rounds, Coach blows the whistle. “Scrimmage time.”

Energy spikes instantly as we divide into two teams.

Then I hear it.

“Miller—you’re with Griffin’s line.”

My stomach tightens.

Great.

I skate into position, dread and determination tangling together in my chest. This isn’t middle school anymore. I’m not that kid.

And if Hayes thinks he still owns this ice—

He’s about to be proven wrong.

The whistle shrieks, and we’re off.

The puck flies from stick to stick as the scrimmage explodes into motion. Hayes immediately takes control, barking orders, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise of blades and boards. I fall into rhythm faster than I expect—anticipating plays, reading movement, letting instinct take over. The adrenaline hits hard, sharp and electric.

This is my element.

The pace intensifies, bodies colliding, sticks clashing. Hayes drives us relentlessly, pushing the line harder, faster. I slide into open ice, positioning myself perfectly.

The pass comes.

I catch it clean and shoot in one smooth motion.

The puck rockets past the goalie and slams into the net.

“Nice shot, Miller!”

The praise scrapes against my skin like sandpaper.