Chapter 11
HAILEY
For half a second, there was nothing. Just silence. And then, the rink exploded . My teammates roared, slamming the boards, hollering my name.
I whipped around, fists clenched, a fierce grin splitting my face as I let out a triumphant yell. "Yes!"
When I looked up from my celebration, breathless and flushed, my eyes found his.
Lively Summers was standing just outside the crease, helmet off, blond hair damp with sweat.
He wasn’t mad. Wasn’t sulking like I'd thought he'd be.
Huh. When he finally turned his gaze to me, there was something that looked suspiciously like resigned respect in his eyes.
As if he'd somehow expected this outcome.
But then, just as quickly, that easy, cocky smirk slid back into place. He skated toward me, slow and deliberate, getting so close that I could literally whisper and he'd hear it. I didn't let that worry me, though, because I did have something to say to him.
"You wish you could win." I said, my tone mocking, repeating the same words I'd said to him in Mallory's hospital room, and he huffed out a thin laugh.
And, instead of saying something annoying, he just stuck out his hand for a handshake. "Congratulations on your win." He said.
I hesitated, just for a second. Lively Summers was competitive to a fault: cocky, relentless, always smirking but the way he played?
He always played like he had something to prove.
And yet, here he was, offering his hand, no frustration in his face, no excuses on his lips.
Just… accepting it. And that threw me, because for a split second, a whisper of doubt curled through my thoughts.
Had he let me win?
I replayed the game in my head at lightning speed—every pass, every cut, every battle for the puck. Lively had played hard. He’d fought for control with everything he had. But what if, in those final moments, he’d let up just enough? What if he’d let me take the shot?
I clenched my jaw, about to ask, but before I could get a word out, the moment shattered.
The coaches stepped onto the ice, their voices slicing through the noise. Coach Hawkins and Coach Gunner exchanged a glance before facing the teams.
“The Blizzard Belles take the win,” Coach Hawkins announced, nodding firmly in my direction. “Which means we’ll be securing the prime practice slots.”
The words had barely left her mouth before my teammates erupted into fresh cheers.
Zoe whooped, slamming her stick against the ice. Sarah pumped a fist in the air. Even some of the Runners, like Dylan— their Vice Captain—tsked, dragging dramatic hands through his hair like his entire world had just ended. My eyes narrowed, but I barely had time to react before I was tackled.
“Hails, that was so badass!” Gina nearly bowled me over, squeezing me tight. “You totally smoked him!”
“I knew you were going to win!” Sarah cackled, ruffling my hair like I was a kid.
“You owned him,” Zoe added, grinning so hard her eyes crinkled at the corners.
Even Coach Hawkins, who rarely doled out praise unless you really earned it, clapped a firm hand on my shoulder. “Well played, Baleman.”
That was the moment that sealed the deal for me. It made my chest go tight, something warm curling in my stomach. I really did it.
I’d won. We’d won. It was real .
Coach Gunner exhaled heavily, crossing his arms, and it was clear he wasn't very pleased with the turn of events.
Oh, boo hoo .
“Final practice schedules will be drawn up tonight,” he said.
That got everyone’s attention.
Voices rose around me, teammates whooping, while the Runners were whining. But they seemed to be complaining about something else entirely.
"Damn it, I mean, we bet on it, but I really can't believe he lost." Dylan, the Rink Runners Vice Captain, groaned, head thrown back, with his hands on his hips.
I wanted to throw a puck right into the center of his face. What, did he think a girl couldn't possibly beat his Captain or something—?
"I bet a whole 50 bucks, man." He continued, and I blinked. "Now, we're gonna have to split it amongst 24 people."
Huh?
"Maybe we should've just banked on him just for the math." Another one of the Runners, Logan Kelly, shook his head with a sigh.
What? The math? What were they jabbering about?
"You know what that's about?" I turned to look at Gina and the other girls, but they just shook their heads.
"If I had to guess though," Gina said, eyes narrowed, "those bastards probably bet on the match."
Zoe snapped her fingers. "Ey! I should've opened a book as well, damn it."
To that, I arched a brow, but she just blinked back at me.
"What?" Was her quip, sounding all innocent like.
Shaking my head, I turned away, my eyes roaming the arena. And I found myself searching for Lively. I quickly spotted him just in time to see him slipping out of the rink, helmet in hand, as he disappeared down the tunnel. Was he leaving ? Just like that?
My pulse ticked up. I’d won. Which meant he owed me an answer. Did he think he could get out of our deal like a slippery snake?
Heck no . So I went after him.
"Hey, I'll be back in a minute." I called back to the girls as I started for the entrance, my focus singular.
"Where are you—?" That was Gina, but I just waved one hand without turning.
"One minute!"
I didn't wait for her response, skating hard toward the exit, yanking off my helmet as I went. As I passed, however, the Rink Runners were turning to look at me, varying expressions on their faces, but there was a theme there: I could see the respect shining in their eyes.
As I passed a particularly built Runner, he tilted his head at me in a salute. "Congratulations on winning the match," he said, "I mean, the risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math."
Ha. Funny. "You're welcome." I smiled a curt smile back, noting his name on his shirt. Barnes.
Then I was striding through the tunnel, my goal singular.
Everything else could wait, for now. My pulse hammered against my throat, though I wasn't sure if it was from the exertion or the confrontation to come.
The corridor outside the rink was cool and dim compared to the harsh lights of the ice.
I caught sight of his broad back just as he was about to turn the corner. The sounds of the rink faded behind me.
“Hey, Summers!”
He turned at the sound of his name, brows lifting in mild surprise. “That eager to gloat, Hailstorm?”
I rolled my eyes. “Your team bet on our match.” I said, instead, the words coming out like an accusation, and Lively shrugged in response.
"They're a pain in my ass like that. What, you want a cut of their earnings? Since only Barnes bet on me winning, the payout is pretty shit."
Ah. So, that was what that guy had been going on about, huh? Ha, did they have so little faith in his skills that they'd refused to bet on him?
But then, my eyes narrowed as my earlier train of thought returned, and I crossed my arms. “So, did you let me win?”
The shift was immediate.
His amusement vanished like a candle snuffed out. His blue eyes darkened, his shoulders went stiff, and something sharp and unreadable settled into his face. Hell, the air between us literally changed.
“Are you being serious right now?”
The weight of his voice had me standing up straighter. Not because he was mad—Lively Summers got annoyed , he got teasingly indignant , but this? This was different. This was offended . He was offended.
“Why the hell would I do that?” he asked, voice low and firm.
I opened my mouth. Shut it. I hadn’t expected this reaction. “I just—” I exhaled sharply. “You were weird about it.”
He scoffed, running a hand through his hair, exasperation bleeding into his features.
“Hailstorm,” he said, voice edged with something serious, “I played to win.” He took a step closer, looking me dead in the eyes. “You earned that. Take the damn win.”
My stomach twisted. Shit. I had earned it. And now I felt stupid for questioning it. I shifted uncomfortably, hating the way guilt prickled at my skin.
“Fine,” I muttered. “Sorry.”
His brows shot up. “Did you…Did you just apologize to me?”
I scowled. “Don’t make me take it back.”
A low chuckle escaped him, the tension cracking just slightly. “Noted.”
I huffed, eager to move on. “Anyway. You owe me an answer.”
He tilted his head. “To what?”
My jaw ticked. “What do you mean to what," I nearly hissed, "How the hell do you know my sister?”
"Ah. That." He tilted his head askance, his sweaty blond hair sticking to his forehead.
And I was going to pretend I didn't notice that. "Yeah, that ." I said. "So, start talking."
His smirk widened, but not in the usual I’m-about-to-drive-you-crazy way. It was subtler. More amused than cocky.
Then he shrugged. “I volunteer at the hospital.”
I stared at him. Huh? I was still blinking, waiting for the punchline. Nothing.
“That’s not funny,” I said flatly.
He snorted. “Wasn’t trying to be.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Lively Summers. Volunteering . At the hospital? The same guy who flirted like breathing, who walked around like he owned the ice, who had a reputation for never taking anything seriously—volunteered?
With kids ?
It didn’t make sense. It didn’t fit. And yet… I thought of Mallory’s stories. The way she’d talked about her “cool hockey friend.” How excited she’d been, and just like it, it did fit. Because I was the problem; I was the one who hadn’t been paying attention.
"But... Why Mallory?" The question shot out of my mouth before I could even think about it.
Lively gave me a look like I’d lost my marbles. "Because she's my friend. Mallory and I play Mario Kart every Tuesday and Thursday. She kicks my ass every time, by the way.”
I blinked. What? What kind of an explanation was that?
I mean, how the hell did my little sister and this jerk become ‘friends’?
But I couldn't deny it. That detail—so specific, so undeniably true—was one I just couldn't overlook.
Because Mallory was damn unstoppable at that game.
I must have been making some kind of face, because Lively chuckled, stepping back toward the locker room.
“You’re doing that thing again.” He said, amusement rife in his tone.
I snapped back to reality. “What thing?”
“The what the hell, why is Lively Summers not acting like a total asshole face.”
I scowled. “I don’t have a face for that.”
Lively was shaking his head. "Oh, you do." He said. "You have a whole lot of different faces, and all of them are damn hot."
I blinked, my lips turning down at the edges from the sheer cringe of it all, and Lively started to laugh, his shoulders shaking as he tried to hold it in.
"Especially that one." He managed to get out between his teeth, and my expression curdled even more.
This punk. He just loved jerking my chain!
"You keep saying shit like that because I don't fight back," I told him, "but I bet you'd stop if I match you."
Lively's laughter choked and his eyes flew wide as he looked right at me. The intensity of his gaze shocked me, my heart pounding hard in my chest as our eyes locked. There was something that looked a whole lot like...like anticipation, in those eyes of his.
What the hell?
His expression wasn’t playful anymore…not entirely. There was something else there now, something quieter, heavier, something that watched me, as if tracking my every minute action and reaction.
Then, voice low, he said, "You think I'd stop?"
My pulse thudded. All of a sudden, I had a feeling this wasn't a joke, as if we'd just crossed over into some kind of twilight zone where up was down and down was up. It was the way he said it. He sounded like he meant it.
Like he wanted me to find out what he’d do.
The moment stretched, the air between us charged with something I just didn't understand. I felt it crackle, like the first hint of electricity before a storm, like standing too close to the boards when a body check slammed against the glass. Lively’s eyes stayed on mine, sharp, unreadable, lips slightly parted like he was considering saying something else.
But after a brief second, he just grinned.
“Let’s dance on the ice some other time, then.” He said, throwing me a salute.
I groaned. “In your dreams.”
And before he could say anything else, I turned and skated away, the skates clicking sharply against the flooring, the cool air of the hallway brushing against my flushed skin.
I didn’t look back. Didn’t want to look back, because what in the world had just happened back there? My thoughts were running a mile a minute, twirling around inside my head in an absolute mess.
So, I decided to fixate on the one thing I could out of our interaction: the fact that Lively Summers—cocky, reckless, fucking obnoxious Lively Summers—had spent months showing up for my sister.
No ulterior motive. No fanfare. Just because he wanted to.
And I didn't know what to do with that. It didn't fit the narrative I'd constructed of him: the entitled rich boy playing at hockey until daddy's connections secured him an NHL spot.
"Because she's my friend."
What kind of an answer was that? I mean, it wasn't that it was a terrible answer or anything. It was just so... strange to hear him refer to my sister—a teenager—that way. I'd never have expected it from... him. And that just told me one thing I'd never really wanted to consider about him at all:
That, apparently, I didn’t know Lively Summers nearly as well as I thought I did.