Chapter 10
HAILEY
I didn't like it.
Not one damn bit .
For two days, my encounter with Lively Summers in Mallory’s hospital room had played on a loop in my head, and I was beyond over it.
Because how in the world were he and Mallory acquainted?
And not just acquainted, but actually buddies?
The conversation kept replaying in my head, over and over, like thinking about it on loop would bring some kind of eureka:
“So how the hell do you know my sister?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
My scowl had deepened because that stance of his had pissed me off. Still did, just remembering it, honestly.
“I would.” I'd managed to grit out, holding on to my civility the best I could.
“Well,” he'd said, “if my partner had actually responded to my texts, she would’ve known.”
My eyes narrowed. I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not. “Summers—”
“But,” he cut me off too fast like he knew he'd been dancing on the ends of my patience, and flashed a too-wide grin, “since she didn’t, I guess she’ll just have to wonder.”
And the jerk had refused to tell me, no matter how much I pushed him to. No, he'd just focused on my sister and acting all buddy-buddy, as if rubbing their relationship in my face. A relationship I hadn't even been aware of.
Just remembering the way Mallory had been so excited to see him made my chest tight.
Two days on, and I could finally admit what this feeling was; jealousy.
It was jealousy. Even though I'd been so relieved to see her so bright and.
.. lively, ugh; I really didn't like that the person who was making her that way was that bastard Summers because, you know, it was him .
And then, there was the way he'd settled into the room like he belonged there, like he’d done this a hundred times before.
He'd even had the audacity to ask me why I'd been visiting my own sister.
"So why are you here?" He'd asked, and the urge to punch his teeth out grew so strong, I almost did it. Really did it.
"Because she's my sister, Summers." I gave him a look that said, ‘are you dumb?’
But he'd just chuckled in the face of it, and said, "I mean, why tonight? I’ve been coming here for months, and I’ve never seen you once."
That'd been a damn good question, too. But I'd been the one meant to ask it. Because how had I never known he visited Mallory?
And then, of course, he had to make it worse.
"Well, lucky for you, I happen to be an excellent stand-in. So if Hailey here can't make it on days you want her to, you just let me know, yeah?"
I’d wanted to strangle him. "I will throw you out the window," I'd said instead, cold as ever, but Lively had only smirked.
"Not before I get to play you on the ice. Two days, Baleman. Hope you're ready."
I'd narrowed my eyes. "You wish you could win."
Now, standing on the edge of the ice as I watched him grin at me from across the rink, the irritation that had been simmering for the past forty-eight hours flared hot again.
"If looks could ice someone over, Summers would be a 6 foot chunk ice sculpture right now," Gina said from beside me, breaking my concentration on him.
I glanced at her and then leaned over to tighten the laces on my skates, fingers steady even as the rink room buzzed with restless energy. My teammates were hyped, muttering under their breath like they were about to go to war.
Because in a way, we were .
We’d worked too damn hard to let the Rink Runners take our prime practice slots. We needed this win.
I needed this win.
"Ha, if only." I said. "That'd be one less annoying man on Earth."
Gina chuckled beside me. "You ready?"
I arched a brow at her. "You don't think I am? Wanna see my training montage or something?"
Gina rolled her eyes at me and thumped me lightly on the shoulder. "I'm asking about today. As in, right now. You ready?"
My lips curved slightly. "Ready as I'll ever be." And I meant it, too.
I caught movement in my periphery—Coach Hawkins, her sharp gaze cutting through the din as she approached me. She was calm as ever, but I knew her well enough to catch the gleam of competitiveness in her sharp gaze.
"You remember whose idea this was, right?"
I held my head high, determination etched into my spine. "Pretty sure I remember, Coach."
"Good. I'm reminding you," she said, her voice low enough that only I could hear, "because if you lose, we're never living this down.
Not to him. Not to them." She tilted her head towards the Rink Runners, all of whom were already lined up and watching like this was the main event of the season.
"That means you go out there, and you handle this. "
I met her eyes, nodding once. "I intend to."
Because I did. This wasn’t just about the team anymore. It was personal now.
The past two days had been nothing but a frustrating loop of my unanswered question and Lively's insufferable texts—texts that had all but cemented my suspicions that he was enjoying watching me squirm:
Fuckface : What do I get if I win?
Me : A hospital bill.
Fuckface : Kinky.
The bastard was enjoying this. So, I was just going to end it. Today .
Now, he was speaking with his coach and teammates, the usual easygoing grin nowhere to be seen. Instead, his expression was set, focused—serious in a way he never seemed to be off the ice.
I scowled, irritation bubbling up again. If he could be this locked in for a damn scrimmage, why couldn’t he be this way all the time? Why was everything a joke with him until it involved a puck?
As if he could hear my thoughts, he suddenly looked up, catching me staring.
Then, he winked. My expression curdled at once. Ugh. I take that back. He was an absolute menace .
Both our coaches stepped onto the ice, calling for attention.
"Alright," Coach Hawkins began, her eyes sweeping over both teams. "Here are the rules. One-on-one, full ice. No time limit. Sudden death—first goal wins."
And even though we already knew this, the tension still rippled through the arena. Because sudden death meant no second chances. No playing it safe. It was all or nothing.
Coach Gunner continued, "No illegal hits, no penalties. Play clean, play fast. We’re not out here to kill each other."
"Speak for yourself," I muttered under my breath.
Our coaches stepped back, and the ref skated forward, puck in hand.
"Players, to center ice."
I exhaled sharply and pushed off, gliding effortlessly to the faceoff circle. Summers met me there, his larger frame casting a slight shadow over the ice.
"Last chance to back out, Hailstorm," he murmured, low enough for only me to hear.
I snorted, dropping into position as I narrowed my eyes at him. "You can, if you're scared," I said and he huffed out a laugh. "But I'm not backing out because I know I'm not going to lose."
Lively's eyes were bright with excitement, his cheeks flushed in a way that made my pulse kick. And that made me pause for a sec because what the heck?
"Heh, tough."
"You better take this seriously, jerk," I told him, "you still owe me an answer," I said.
He arched a brow, the corners of his mouth tugging up. "An answer to what?"
I scowled. He was having so much fun with this, wasn't he? Enjoying how I couldn't stop thinking about it like this, huh?
"How the hell do you know my sister?"
His smirk widened, full of the same cocky amusement that had fueled every stupid text he’d sent me in response to my very reasonable question:
"She’s my number one fan, obviously."
"Jealous? You can be my number two if you ask nicely."
"Hailstorm, are you flirting with me?"
Just remembering them made me want to strangle him.
Again.
And now, standing here, he was still playing games, like he hadn't been ducking my actual question for two days.
"Only if you can beat me, Hailstorm," he said, tapping his stick against the ice.
My grip tightened on mine.
"Fine," I said. "Hope you like losing."
Lively just smirked.
Jerk . He was trying to bait me. But I wasn't going to fall for it.
I exhaled slowly. Lively crouched low, hands loose and ready. His gaze locked onto mine, and something in his expression shifted—still confident, but sharper now. Serious .
And my breath caught in my throat at the sight. That jarred me back to myself almost instantly.
Seriously , I thought grumpily, what the hell is up with me right now?
Because this was not the time to get distracted. I forced myself to breathe. To clear my mind.
Fast. Precise. Controlled. That was how I played. I could win this. I would win this.
The puck dropped.
I was on it in a blink, my skates biting hard into the ice as I lunged forward.
Lively was bigger, stronger—he had the clear advantage in power. But I was faster. More precise. And I was about to remind him exactly what that meant.
He reached, but I was already moving, stickhandling with tight, controlled touches as I flicked the puck past his grasp. A quick cut left, then another—so fast I barely caught his reaction. Just the blur of his jersey in my periphery as I slipped around him.
"Shit," he muttered, pivoting fast.
I smirked. But I didn’t have time to gloat before I felt him closing in. His strides were longer, more powerful, eating up the distance between us. He was fast—for a guy his size, dangerously fast—and when he hit, he hit hard . I didn't want to be on the receiving end of that.
He shifted, reading my next cut, so I switched at the last second, faking right, then snapping left in a tight crossover that sent me flying past him.
His curse was lost beneath the scrape of blades as he twisted to chase me down. Heat, muscle, pure reckless determination—he bore down on me, his presence sharp against my back. And yeah, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t send a thrill down my spine, the sheer intensity of it.
I drove forward, puck steady, eyes locked on the net.
Then—impact.
Not a full hit, but a heavy brush against my shoulder, Lively cutting into my space, forcing me wide. I bared my teeth, digging my edges deep, fighting for control.
"You always this pushy?" I snapped.
"You always this stubborn?" he shot back, but there was a gleam in his eye through his face cage that corresponded with the thrill pumping in my veins, pushing me to go harder.
Then he came at me full force. A clash of steel and ice, stick meeting stick, muscle against momentum—he won possession, breaking free with terrifying efficiency.
Ah, shit. I was not going to lose.
I chased, strides devouring the space between us. He was locked in, puck glued to his blade, carving through the zone like he owned it.
Not today.
I forced him wide, closing off his lane, giving him nothing.
He adjusted, shifting his angle, hunting for an opening—an opening that wasn’t there. And just before he could cut back inside—I struck.
A sharp hook of my blade, a quick, calculated nudge, just enough to send the puck loose and make him lose it for half a second.
But half a second was all I needed.
I stole it. Turned on a dime and burned down the ice. I felt him commit—the shift of his weight, the reach of his stick—and I used it. In a flash, I dropped my shoulder and spun, pivoting hard, the puck barely clinging to my blade as I twisted past him in a near-impossible turn.
His skates stuttered. "Fuck!" He bit out as he scrambled for purchase.
I grinned. And then I was gone, racing toward the net, cutting through the open ice like a bullet.
Lively was right behind me, but it didn’t matter. The goal was there. My muscles burned, my heartbeat pounded in sync with the rhythm of my skates, and—
I fired.
The puck sliced through the air, fast, clean—like it had been waiting for this moment to let loose down the ice.
Ping!
The unmistakable sound of rubber hitting twine.
Goal .