CHAPTER 5
I’ve always loved hockey.
Baseball too—but hockey owns me.
There’s nothing like being on the ice. The glide of skates. Cold air biting at your skin. The rush of adrenaline flooding your veins. It’s the same high I get in a boxing ring—fists flying, rage pouring out of me until everything goes quiet.
When Mom and I first moved to Brooklyn, I joined the hockey team during my freshman year. I was good—better than most. After a few games against other public schools, I quickly became one of the best players on the roster.
Then I got kicked out.
Skipping classes. Fighting. Suspensions every few weeks. Breaking school rules like they didn’t apply to me. Even getting into it with my own teammates.
It was stupid.
Looking back, it’s obvious I was searching for reasons to self-destruct.
When Mom and Mark moved us to Manhattan, I transferred to a private school and didn’t bother joining any sports. By then, I’d become addicted to underground boxing, and hockey faded into the background.
Still, I loved it.
Hockey was tied to my dad. He’d been a star player back in his day, and growing up, I wanted nothing more than to be like him. He taught me everything—how to skate, how to shoot, how to read the ice. Whenever he wasn’t sick, he played with me.
Leaving the team in middle school broke his heart.
I never told him the truth. Never told him a rich kid was beating the shit out of me behind closed doors and threatening me until quitting felt like survival. Instead, I lied and said I just wasn’t feeling hockey anymore.
Dad pretended it didn’t bother him.
But I saw the disappointment in his eyes.
Thinking about it now makes my fists clench.
I want to punch Hayes in his annoyingly perfect face.
God, I hate him.
I want to fucking hurt him.
And there are plenty of ways to hurt an arrogant, entitled bastard like Hayes Griffin.
All you have to do is take the one thing he loves and remind him the world doesn’t revolve around him.
After school, I grab my sports bag from the trunk of Mark’s Tesla. My car’s still stuck at the mechanic’s, so Mark lent me his spare until it’s fixed. I head into the locker room by the rink, change into my gear, and take a moment to steady my breathing.
This isn’t fear.
It’s anticipation.
At least thirty guys are trying out—most of them tall, broad, built like tanks. Only a handful will make the team.
I step onto the rink.
Heads turn.
Eyes follow.
And then there’s Hayes.
He’s staring straight at me, shock written all over his face—along with something else.
Something darker.
Good.
Shane and Ezra lean in, clearly asking Hayes something—something about me. But Hayes doesn’t even look at them. His attention is locked solely on me.
Then he skates forward.
Slow. Deliberate.
He doesn’t break eye contact as he reaches out, grabs my elbow, and pulls me toward the corner of the rink. My skates scrape against the ice as I’m dragged with him.
“The fuck is your problem?” I snap, yanking my arm from his grip.
“Are you seriously asking me that?” Hayes says, running a hand through his dark hair.
Fuck.
Why does he look good doing that?
No. Stop it.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks, his tone sharp, threaded with anger.
“Trying out for the team,” I reply casually. “Obviously.”
Hayes lets out a low, humorless laugh. It sounds dangerous. His breath ghosts across my face, and only then do I realize how close we are.
Too close.
I should step back.
I don’t.
“Since when are you a hockey guy?” he says. “There are other sports, Dakota. Why hockey?”
I almost laugh.
And then it hits me.
He said my name.
Not my last name. Not Miller.
Dakota.
Back in middle school, he never used it. Not once.
Hearing it now—soft, effortless, rolling off his tongue—does something to me. A sharp, unwanted pull low in my gut. I hate my name less when he says it.
Fuck.
I square my shoulders, forcing the reaction down. The last thing Hayes Griffin ever needs to know is that some traitorous part of me still responds to him.
“What?” I scoff, rolling my tongue against my bottom lip as I meet his stare. “You got a problem with me trying out?”
I lean in just enough to make it uncomfortable.
“Or are you scared I might actually be better than you?” I add. “That maybe people won’t take you so seriously anymore?”
His jaw tightens. He bites his bottom lip, nostrils flaring, his pale skin flushed with anger.
“What are you trying to prove?” he snaps. “Is this some pathetic payback because you couldn’t stand up for yourself four years ago?”
Then he smiles.
Cold. Cruel.
“Grow the fuck up, Dakota,” he says. “You’re still the same little girl I used to hit.”
Something inside me snaps.
My jaw clenches. My fist curls tight at my side, every instinct screaming to swing—to break something.
I don’t.
Because if I hit him now, I lose my chance at this team.
And if Hayes’s goal was to get under my skin?
Congratulations.
He’s succeeding.
I force myself to breathe.
Deep. Slow.
Make the team first.
Then deal with him.
Hayes steps closer.
This time, there’s barely any space between us.
I can feel it—the attention. Everyone around us has gone still, waiting. Watching. Placing bets on whether one of us is about to throw a punch.
Not today.
“So what?” Hayes says lowly, his voice sharp and humorless. “You couldn’t get enough of me, so you decided to join the team?”
He lets out a short, dark laugh.
“Couldn’t get me out of your head? You just had to force your way back into my life. My school. And now my fucking team.” His eyes narrow. “How pathetic is that? It was never going to happen, Dakota. Not then. Not now.”
I chuckle.
Slow. Deliberate.
I let my gaze drag over him, down his chest, over his shoulders, and back up to his face—just to get under his skin. Because I know it will.
“Maybe you should pull your head out of your ass before convincing yourself I want you,” I say calmly. “Or should I remind you who crossed that line first?”
That finally does it.
The smirk slips.
“And don’t lie to yourself and say you did it just to mess with me,” I continue, my voice dropping. “You didn’t look confused that night. You didn’t look forced either. In fact, I think you enjoyed it.”
His jaw tightens.
I tilt my head, eyes flicking briefly to his lips before meeting his gaze again. “Funny how you remember everything else—but not that part.”
I don’t know for sure how much that kiss affected him back then. I never did.
Now I have my answer.
His jaw tightens. Muscles jump along his cheek as he clenches and unclenches his fists, the memory clearly hitting harder than he wants to admit.
I chuckle.
“Yeah, look at you getting all hot and bothered, Mr. Hotshot. I think you even popped a vein,” I smirk at him. “Why don’t you go stand in a corner and come up with something better than the bullshit you just spat?”
“Hayes?” a voice cuts in. Older. Sharp. “Something going on here?”
Hayes and I don’t look away from each other. Not yet. We’re still locked in our little stand-off, neither of us acknowledging the interruption.
“Griffin!”
The barked command snaps through the rink.
Slowly, I turn toward the source of the voice. The man standing a few feet away is older, broad-shouldered, and dressed in team gear. The way he carries himself says everything.
Coach.
Hayes clears his throat and finally steps back, turning to face him.
“Nothing, Coach.”
“Nothing?” Coach says dryly. “Because it looked like you two were seconds away from tearing each other apart.”
“No, sir,” Hayes replies smoothly. “I was just getting to know Miller here.”
He flicks a brief, sharp glare at me before returning his attention to the coach.
I smirk.
Around the rink, everyone’s watching us now. A few faces look disappointed—like they were hoping one of us would end up bleeding.
Soon, boys. Soon.
My attention snaps back to the coach when I feel his gaze settle on me.
“And you must be Dakota Miller.”
“Yes, sir.”
He studies me for a moment. Then his brows lift slightly. “Are you Derek Miller’s son?”
The question catches me off guard.
“Yes, sir.”
A smile spreads across his face, softer now. “Small world. You might not remember me, but your dad and I were good friends. I’m sorry about his passing.”
Yeah. I remember him now.
Mason Rivera. He used to come over to our house to watch hockey games with my dad.
Good man.
“Your father was a hell of a player back in high school,” Coach Rivera continues. “And I watched you play with Griffin in middle school. You were good.” He tilts his head. “Why’d you quit?”
Because the captain made my life hell.
Instead, I give him the answer I’ve been giving everyone for years.
“I just wasn’t feeling hockey then, sir.”
“Huh.” He nods slowly. “Well, I’m glad you’re back. I’m looking forward to seeing what you bring to the team.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What position?”
“Forward,” I reply. “Winger.”
Coach Rivera’s lips curve. “Nice. Hayes here’s a winger too.” He glances between us. “If you make the team—and I have a feeling you will, you play a lot like your dad—you two could make a solid pairing.”
I hear Hayes scoff under his breath.
“Why don’t you make the team first,” he mutters.
I don’t look at him.
I don’t need to.
“Come on, boys,” Coach Rivera says, turning away as he heads back toward the rest of the group.
“Just to be clear,” Hayes mutters, shooting me a death glare, “this isn’t over. And you’re never gonna make the team.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Hayes opens his mouth to fire back, but the coach beats him to it.
“Gather around, everyone. Circle up.”
We skate closer, forming a loose ring around him.
Hayes takes his place beside Coach Rivera, leaning casually on his hockey stick, his glare never leaving me.
Yeah. Bite me.
“For those of you who don’t know who I am,” Coach Rivera says, his voice carrying across the rink, “I’m Coach Rivera. And this,” he gestures toward Hayes, “is Hayes Griffin, the team captain.”
Hayes straightens slightly, soaking it in like he always does.
“I know a lot of you are talented,” the coach continues. “But I’ll only be keeping a few. Those who don’t make varsity will be moved to junior varsity. If you prove yourselves, you might be called up when needed.”
His gaze flicks to me briefly before sweeping over the rest of the group.
“So get out there and impress me.”
He claps his hands together, sharp and decisive.
“Let’s go.”
The circle breaks as everyone skates toward the ice.
I tighten my grip on my stick, heart pounding, adrenaline flooding my veins.
Here goes nothing.