Across the Boards

1 wrong jersey

There are bad decisions, and then there are decisions you fully commit to out of spite even while knowing they're going to ruin your life.

Wearing a rival team's jersey to my ex-boyfriend's hockey game definitely falls into the second category.

"I still think this is a terrible idea," Jess says, even though she's smiling in the way she only does when she's about to witness something chaotic and memorable.

"You say that like you didn't help me pick it," I reply, tugging the oversized jersey down over my jeans as we walk toward the rink.

Jess bumps her shoulder into mine. "I helped you pick the most offensive one. There's a difference."

That difference being that I am currently wearing Caiden Jackson's jersey, the captain of our school's biggest rival team, to a game where my ex—Josh Mayer—probably expects me to still care a little too much about what he thinks.

I don't.

At least, not in a way I'm willing to admit out loud.

"That's him, by the way," Jess mutters, nodding toward the entrance.

Josh is already there with a couple of his teammates, laughing like nothing in his life has ever gone wrong. He looks exactly the same—same stupidly perfect hair, same effortless confidence, same ability to make my eye twitch just by existing.

He hasn't noticed me yet.

Which is about to change.

"Wait," Jess says, grabbing my arm before I can keep walking. "Are you mentally prepared for the consequences of this?"

"No," I answer honestly, then start moving again. "But that's never stopped me before."

Jess exhales like she's already accepted her role as witness to my downfall and follows me inside.

?

The rink smells like cold air, popcorn, and poor decisions.

We find seats right up against the glass, which Jess insists is "optimal for drama," and I don't argue because she's not wrong. The place is already filling up, students from both schools mixing in that tense, competitive way that somehow always ends in someone yelling before the third period.

I sit down, stretch my legs out, and pretend I don't feel the weight of the jersey on my shoulders.

It's not subtle.

Bright colors. Rival logo. His name on the back.

Jess leans over, lowering her voice. "Okay, but you have to admit this is kind of iconic."

"I'm not trying to be iconic," I say, even though a small part of me absolutely is.

"You wore the captain's jersey," she replies. "That's not subtle rebellion. That's a statement."

Before I can respond, someone a few rows back lets out a low whistle.

"Oh my God," Jess whispers, grabbing my arm again. "You're already being perceived."

"I hate that sentence."

I don't turn around. If I acknowledge it, it becomes real, and I would prefer to delay that for as long as possible.

The teams skate out onto the ice, and the noise level jumps instantly. Skates carve into the surface, sticks tap, the crowd shifts forward in anticipation. I try not to look for Josh immediately, but it's like my brain is wired to find him anyway.

He spots me within seconds.

Of course he does.

His expression flickers—confusion first, then disbelief, then something sharper when he registers the jersey. I lift my hand in a small, casual wave, like I didn't plan this down to the last detail.

Jess leans closer. "He looks like he just got emotionally drop-kicked."

"Good," I say, settling back in my seat.

The game starts, fast and loud, but I'm only half paying attention. My focus keeps drifting—first to Josh, then to the general chaos around us, and eventually to the other team.

Specifically, their captain.

Caiden Jackson is exactly the kind of player you notice even if you don't care about hockey, which I don't. He moves like everything on the ice belongs to him, sharp and controlled and just a little aggressive.

There's something annoyingly confident about the way he plays, like he expects things to go his way.

I don't like that.

I don't like him.

And yet, somehow, I keep noticing where he is.

Jess follows my gaze and smirks. "Careful. That's the enemy."

"I'm aware," I say. "I'm wearing his name."

"Yeah, and I'm still not over that."

The game picks up speed, tension building with every near miss and aggressive check. By the middle of the period, the energy has shifted from competitive to borderline hostile, and it's only a matter of time before someone crosses a line.

That someone, apparently, is Caiden.

A sharp collision near center ice sends a player sprawling, and within seconds, the whistle blows. Voices rise, players shove, and the refs step in before it turns into a full fight.

Jess straightens beside me. "Oh, this is about to get good."

Caiden gets pulled out of the mess and sent straight toward the penalty box.

Toward us.

I sit up a little without meaning to, suddenly very aware of how close our seats are to the glass. He skates over, clearly irritated, jaw tight as he pushes open the door and steps inside.

For a second, he doesn't look at me.

Then he does.

His gaze drops to the jersey, lingers there, and then lifts back to my face.

There's a pause—brief, but noticeable.

I tilt my head slightly. "Having a rough night?"

Jess makes a quiet choking sound next to me, like she didn't expect me to actually say something.

Caiden's expression shifts, irritation sharpening into something more focused. "You're wearing that like you know what it means."

"I know it's your name," I reply. "That seemed like a good start."

He lets out a short breath, somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. "You always sit this close, or is this a special occasion?"

"Just for you," I say sweetly.

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he's trying not to react. "You don't even look like you're from my school."

"I'm not."

"Then you're confused."

"Or," I counter, leaning back slightly, "I just have excellent taste."

Jess is fully gripping my arm now, her entire body vibrating with barely contained laughter.

Caiden shakes his head once, like he's already decided I'm a problem he doesn't want to deal with. "Right. That explains it."

"Explains what?"

"Why you're sitting here trying to start something you can't finish."

I smile, slow and deliberate. "Bold of you to assume that."

There's a flicker in his expression again—something quick and unreadable—and for a second, the noise of the rink fades into the background.

Then someone nearby starts chanting. It catches on faster than it should.

Jess leans in, whispering, "Oh no."

Phones start coming out. People turn toward us. The energy shifts again, this time sharper, expectant.

Caiden glances past me at the crowd, then back at me, clearly unimpressed. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Whatever you're thinking."

I hadn't been thinking anything, not really. But now—

Now I am.

This is a terrible idea. Which means I'm definitely going to do it.

I lean forward before I can overthink it, closing the distance between us in one quick, impulsive movement.

The kiss is brief, more bold than soft, more statement than anything else.

For half a second, everything goes completely still.

Then the rink explodes.

Noise crashes in from every direction—cheering, shouting, the sharp rise of voices reacting all at once. Jess makes a sound that's somewhere between a scream and laughter, gripping my sleeve like she might actually pass out.

I pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

"Well," I say, brushing a hand over the front of the jersey like I didn't just make the worst decision of my life, "that should help your stats."

His expression is unreadable. Not amused, not impressed, just... focused.

Somewhere behind us, someone yells, "NO WAY," and I catch a glimpse of at least five phones pointed directly at us.

Jess leans into my shoulder, breathless. "Madi."

"I know," I murmur.

"I think you just went viral."

I don't look away from him.

"Yeah," I say quietly. "I think I did."