CHAPTER 6
Coach Rivera divides us into two teams—team blue and team red.
Red team is made up of forwards. Blue team, defensemen, and goalies.
“Listen up, boys,” Coach Rivera calls. “Before we get into the scrimmage, we’re starting with skating drills. I want to test your pace, agility, and leg work.” He points toward the benches. “Blue team, take a seat. Red team, gather at the opposite goal line. On my whistle, you go.”
The blue team skates off to the penalty bench. I swallow hard, nerves crawling up my spine. It’s been a while since I’ve played, and pretending otherwise would be a lie.
I shut my eyes for a brief second and take a deep breath.
When I open them, the nerves are gone.
I glide toward the opposite goal line with the rest of the forwards, my skates cutting clean lines into the ice. I take another breath, my gaze flicking briefly to Hayes. He’s watching me—of course he is—probably hoping I’ll screw up.
I look away.
The shrill blast of the whistle sends us flying.
We sprint down the ice, skates biting hard as we push for speed, racing to the far end and back. The cold air burns my lungs, adrenaline flooding my system, muscle memory snapping into place like it never left.
Coach Rivera and Hayes stand off to the side, watching.
Skating drills are basic. Footwork. Speed. Control. I’ve done this a thousand times. My stride is strong, my edges clean. I move through backward skating, tight turns, crossovers—smooth, fast, controlled.
Some of the guys struggle. A few wobble. I don’t.
As I skate past, I catch Coach Rivera watching me, pride clear on his face. He leans toward Hayes and murmurs something in his ear just before blowing the whistle to stop us.
I meet Hayes’s eyes in time to see him roll his, a scowl pulling at his mouth.
Coach Rivera moves down the line, offering brief corrections, clapping a few guys on the shoulder. Then he stops in front of me.
“Good work, Miller,” he says, smiling. “I’m not surprised you’ve still got it.”
He gives my back a firm pat before turning to address the others.
I glance toward Hayes, who clearly heard every word.
I smirk.
He glares at me, then looks away, jaw tight.
Hayes Griffin is a phenomenal hockey player. That’s the truth, whether I like it or not. Back in middle school, they called him a god on the ice.
And they weren’t wrong.
No matter how good I am, I can’t pretend I don’t know it—I can’t compete with him. Hayes is just that good.
Which only makes his arrogance ten times worse.
I take a seat with the rest of the red team as we watch the blue team skate from end to end.
Some of the guys are solid, skating clean and controlled.
Others struggle—edges slipping, turns sloppy.
A few move gracefully, sharp pivots and quick transitions that make it obvious they’ve been doing this a long time.
“Hey, man.”
I turn to the guy sitting beside me.
“I’m Zach. You’ve got good skating skills.”
From where we’re sitting, he looks about my height. Golden skin. Long blond hair pulled into a low man bun. Dark blue eyes. Slim nose. There’s a faint scar cutting through the edge of one eyebrow.
Good-looking. Younger.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m Dakota.”
He smiles, and it’s easy—unforced. I turn my attention back to the ice, watching the blue team finish their drill.
“You a senior?” he asks.
I glance back at him, brow lifting. “What?”
“I mean—are you a senior?” he clarifies quickly.
“Oh.” I nod. “Yeah. You?”
“Junior.”
I nod. “Cool.”
He watches me for a second. “You’re a winger, right?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Center.”
That explains the confidence. Zach’s smile widens, almost infectious.
Coach Rivera’s whistle cuts through the rink, and the blue team comes to a stop. A few guys bend over, catching their breath. Hayes skates slowly along the line, shaking his head, his gaze sharp and assessing.
“Good work,” Coach Rivera says. “Although some of you are clearly struggling.”
He tilts his head toward Hayes.
Hayes pushes off and glides to center ice. “Alright, listen up,” he calls. “We’re moving on to the next skating drill. Most of you should know this one.”
His eyes flick briefly to me before sliding away.
“Trucks and Trailers. You’ll need a partner. One of you is the truck, the other the trailer. The trailer mirrors the truck’s movements—tight turns, speed changes, direction shifts. Who leads will change, so stay sharp.” He pauses. “Team red, you’re up first. Pair up.”
“You wanna partner up?” Zach asks, hopeful but casual.
“Sure,” I shrug.
“Blue team, take a seat,” Coach Rivera adds. “We’re using the neutral zone. Don’t cross the blue line. Show us controlled movement—we want to see skill, not chaos.”
The blue team settles onto the bench as the red team skates toward the neutral zone.
I’ve done this drill countless times.
Even with Hayes.
Back in Dalton, he’d been my partner more than once during warmups. That’s probably why he looked my way when he mentioned it.
The thought irritates me more than it should.
“You wanna be the truck?” Zach asks, pulling me back to the present.
“Sure.”
He grins. “Great.”
At the sound of Coach Rivera’s whistle, we start navigating the neutral zone. I force myself to focus, shoving every unwanted memory to the back of my mind as I skate. The sound of blades cutting into the ice steadies me, calming my nerves as I throw in clean, controlled movements.
I can feel Hayes’s dark gaze burning into my back, scrutinizing every step. I resist the urge to turn around just to tell him to fuck off.
Zach does his best to mirror me—pivot turns, Mohawks, backward and forward skating. He keeps up well, and from his footwork alone, I can tell he’s been skating for years.
After a few laps around the neutral zone, the whistle blows again.
We switch roles.
Zach becomes the truck, and I fall in behind him. He moves smoothly, confident, and I match him stride for stride, copying every turn and shift in speed. The drill flows easily, muscle memory taking over.
A few minutes later, the whistle sounds again, signaling us to stop.
We skate to the bench as the blue team takes the ice, their trucks leading while the trailers mirror every move.
“Wow,” Zach says once we’re seated, grinning at me. “You’re really good. And fast.”
“Thanks,” I reply. “You too.”
He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I really hope I make the team. Some of these guys are insane.”
“Don’t let that get to you,” I tell him honestly. “You’re good.”
Zach smiles, looking back toward the ice. “Thanks, Dakota.”
I nod, then shift my attention to Hayes.
He’s staring straight at me. Not glaring this time—something else sits in his expression. Something tight. Calculating.
“I’m guessing you’ve been skating for a while,” Zach says, pulling my attention back.
“Yeah. A while,” I reply. “You?”
“Since I was ten,” he says. “Hockey’s always been the dream.”
“Cool,” I say, not sure what else to add.
After a few more minutes, Coach Rivera blows the whistle again.
“Alright, next drill. Puck control.”
The red team goes first.
Each of us gets a puck. The goal is simple: maintain control of your own puck while trying to knock everyone else’s away. Last one standing wins.
When the whistle blows, we’re off.
I keep my head up, stick tight, body loose. I dodge, pivot, and protect the puck instinctively. One by one, guys lose control and skate off to the side.
When the final whistle sounds, my puck is still glued to my blade.
“Good job, Miller!” Coach Rivera calls, smiling proudly.
Confidence surges through me as I glance toward Hayes.
He rolls his eyes, his expression sour.
What a girl.
The next drill is a one-on-one. Coach Rivera pairs each forward with a defenseman from the blue team.
I go first.
The defenseman I’m matched with is bigger than me, maybe two inches shorter, with broad shoulders and solid on his skates. I don’t bother learning his name. My job is simple—get around him and score. His job is to stop me.
He’s fast. Skilled. Just not fast enough.
With the puck under my control, I read every shift of his weight, every twitch of his stick. I fake left, cut right, accelerate past him, and fire the puck into the net before he can recover.
Clean. Efficient.
Coach Rivera nods at me, pride clear in his expression.
I catch Hayes watching from the side, his jaw tight, irritation written all over his face. I don’t laugh. I don’t need to.
I smirk.
Coach Rivera splits us into two teams for the scrimmage—six players per side, five lines total. Each team has three forwards, two defensemen, and a goalie. Zach slots in as center on my line.
We use all three zones, goalies posted at both ends.
I take my position on the right wing. Another forward lines up on the left. The defensemen hang back, ready.
Zach squares up for the face-off against the opposing center.
Hayes drops the puck.
Zach wins it clean, sending it back into our zone.
We move as one—tight passes, quick transitions, skating hard into the offensive zone. A defenseman feeds the puck to me just as I cross the blue line. I cut around my defender, keeping control, drawing pressure.
I dish it back to Zach near the crease.
He snaps the shot.
Goal.
My team erupts, grins wide, sticks tapping the ice.
By the time the scrimmage ends, we win 5–3.
I score three of those goals.
The locker room is quiet now. Empty.
At the end of tryouts, Coach Rivera pulled me aside. Told me he was impressed. Said he couldn’t wait to see what else I’d bring before final cuts.
Hayes stood beside him, arms crossed, frowning as the coach talked. Then Rivera mentioned my dad—laughing softly, reminiscing about the old days they shared.
Days I don’t talk about.
Every day, I miss my father. But pretending his death didn’t carve something out of me is how I’ve survived all these years.
By the time I make it back to the locker room to strip out of my gear, everyone else is gone.
Just me.
I decide against showering, knowing I’m heading straight home. I strip out of my gear and pull on black sweatpants, white Nike sneakers, then reach for my black long-sleeved T-shirt.
I’m halfway through pulling it over my head when the locker room door opens.
I freeze.
Hayes strolls in, already changed—sweatpants, sweatshirt, casual like he owns the place. He pauses just inside the doorway, his gaze dragging over me.
Slow.
Deliberate.
He stops at my torso, his eyes lingering for a beat too long. Something flashes across his face—something I don’t recognize—and then it’s gone. When his gaze lifts to mine, his expression is blank. Cold. Unreadable.
Did he just check me out?
Or am I losing my fucking mind today?
I work out regularly. There’s no fat on my body. My abs aren’t carved like marble, but they’re there. Defined. Real.
I scoff and pull the shirt down over my torso, covering myself, annoyed that he caught me mid-change. My eyes betray me anyway, sweeping over him.
Fuck.
He looks good. Effortlessly so. His hair sits perfectly, a few strands falling beneath his sharp brows like it’s intentional.
“What do you want, Hayes?” I snap. “You here to bitch, or do you actually need something?”
He chuckles, slow and lazy, licking his bottom lip as he takes a few steps toward me. He stops just inches away—too close. His scent hits me—clean, masculine, expensive. Cologne layered over something unmistakably him.
“I don’t know who you think you’re fooling with this tough-guy act,” he says calmly, “but I can see right through you, Dakota.”
I tilt my head, a slow smirk pulling at my lips.
“Is that so?”
I step forward until our noses nearly touch.
“Just so we’re clear,” I say quietly, “I don’t fucking like you. And I’m pretty sure the feeling’s mutual. This isn’t middle school. The kid you and your friends used to hit? That’s not me anymore.”
I hold his gaze. Don’t blink.
“The last thing you want to do is mess with me,” I add. “You’ll regret it.”
Hayes’s lips curve into a smug smile, white teeth flashing. “Are you threatening me, Miller?”
I shrug. “You could always find out.”
He laughs softly, nodding as if amused. “The last thing either of us needs is making senior year miserable for both of us,” he says. “Though honestly, I wouldn’t mind.”
He tilts his head.
“And this little game you’ve been playing? Flirting with my girlfriend. Winking at her. Thinking that would make me jealous?” He lets out a short laugh. “God, you’re an idiot if you think Shay could ever be used to get to me.”
He pauses. His eyes harden.
“Or was that you trying to get my attention?” he adds softly. “Because if you haven’t noticed—you’re not my type. Not even close.”
He looks me over once more. Deliberate.
“So do yourself a favor. Drop out of the team before you even make it.” His tone turns flat. “Save yourself the embarrassment.”
“I don’t know what your daddy told you, Hayes,” I say, smiling thinly, “but the world doesn’t revolve around you.” I tilt my head. “And you and I both know what your type really is. You don’t have to keep lying to yourself.”
Hayes’s jaw tightens as he bites down on his lip, fury flashing in his eyes.
“What did you just say to me?”
“What—you deaf or something?”
The silence snaps.
Without warning, he shoves me hard. My back slams into the wall, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs. His grip is iron as his hands pin my shoulders, his body crowding mine.
Strong. Too strong.
He leans in, his mouth brushing my ear.
“You don’t want to mess with me, Miller,” he whispers. “I can make your life very, very unbearable—in and out of Crestview.”
He pulls back just enough for me to see his face, his brown eyes dark and simmering.
“And don’t forget this,” he adds quietly. “Whether you make this team or not? That’s on me.”
His grip tightens.
“So watch how you talk to me. Or I’ll make sure you don’t make it.”