CHAPTER 26
The rink is the one place I can really let go—of the drama clogging my head, of the constant anger simmering under my skin, of the boy I fucking hate more than anything. Out here, none of that is supposed to matter. Just the ice. Just the game.
It’s Friday, and Coach Rivera is in one of his moods. The kind where he runs us like we’re being punished for breathing wrong, determined to break us down before our first game of the season next week. The Crestview Kings don’t step onto the ice untested.
I catch sight of Hayes on the far side of the rink.
He’s impossible to miss.
Ezra and Finn skate beside him, flanking him like loyal guards as he cuts across the ice with infuriating ease. The Kings’ captain. The golden boy. The crown fits him too well—confident posture, sharp turns, head held high like he knows the ice bends to him.
We’ve been avoiding each other since detention. No words. No confrontations. Just sharp looks thrown like knives whenever we cross paths. Out here, we pretend to be civil for the sake of the team. The Kings don’t air their internal wars in public.
“Hey, Dakota.”
I turn at the familiar voice.
Lance skates up to me, slowing to a stop, his grin easy but his eyes sharp with curiosity.
“Hey, man,” I reply, returning the smile, even though my focus keeps drifting back to the far end of the rink.
The ice is brutal beneath my skates, unforgiving and cold, but it’s the kind of punishment I understand. My legs burn. My lungs ache. Every sharp stop sends pain straight up my spine—but it’s clean pain. Honest pain. Out here, nothing else exists.
Coach Rivera’s voice cuts through the air like a whip.
“Miller! Push harder! You don’t earn a Kings jersey by coasting!”
I grit my teeth and dig in.
“Griffin! Don’t get lazy on me. Captains set the pace—move!”
My chest tightens at the sound of his name, but I don’t look. I refuse to. I lock into the drills, into the rhythm, into the scrape of steel against ice. Hayes Griffin doesn’t get space in my head today.
But it’s impossible not to notice him.
He skates like he owns the place—fast, precise, every movement deliberate.
Like the rink is his court and the rest of us are just pieces moving around him.
It makes my blood boil. I hate how good he is.
Hate how effortless it looks. Hate that the Kings were built around him long before I ever set foot back here.
“Hey—you.”
Zach slides up beside me, snapping me out of my thoughts as I turn to face him.
Throughout this week, Zach is always in my space, on the ice, and even during morning hours by my locker.
He’d start with a simple and easy-going conversation, and then he’d flirt with me, throwing boyish smiles that make it impossible to tell if he’s being serious or just messing around.
It’s been like this all week—his presence constant, his attention unwavering, like he’s trying to crack through whatever walls I’ve built up.
“Hey,” I reply, my voice steady despite the sudden twist in my stomach. I rest my hands on my knees, still catching my breath from the laps I just finished.
“You’ve been killing it out here,” Zach says, his tone casual as he leans against the boards, his dark green eyes fixed on me. “Gotta say, it’s kinda impressive watching you skate.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s a small part of me that doesn’t mind the compliment. “Thanks, I guess.”
He smirks, tilting his head slightly. “What? No sarcastic comeback? No telling me to go bother someone else? I think I’m starting to grow on you, Miller.”
I shake my head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of my mouth despite myself. “Or maybe I’m just too tired to fight you off.”
Zach laughs, the sound warm and easy, and for a moment, it cuts through the heaviness that’s been following me around all day. “Fair enough,” he says. “But for the record, I’m not going anywhere. So you might as well get used to me.”
I straighten up, leaning on my stick as I glance over at him. “You always this persistent?”
“Not really. Not unless it’s someone as fine as you,” he replies smoothly, his grin widening. There’s something in his tone, something playful yet sincere, that makes my chest tighten in a way I’m not ready to deal with.
Before I can respond, he skates closer, his voice dropping slightly. “You know, you don’t have to keep everyone at arm’s length, Dakota. Some of us aren’t here to make your life harder.”
The words catch me off guard, and for a moment, I don’t know what to say. Zach’s gaze is steady, unflinching, and it’s clear he’s not just talking about hockey or casual conversations. He’s offering something more—something I’m not sure I can accept.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say finally, my voice quieter than before.
Zach nods, his boyish smile returning as he backs away. “Good.”
“Miller! Nash!” A familiar voice calls, the sharpness putting a stop to me and Zach’s conversation.
I turn to see Hayes glaring at me, his expression a mixture of irritation, anger, and something else I can’t quite place.
He skates toward us, but stops a few feet away, his gaze fixed on me and Zach’s proximity.
Sometimes I forget he’s the team captain, so he uses that as an opportunity to put everyone in their place.
“What’s this, an episode of Dakota Miller’s Social Hour?” Hayes drawls, his tone laced with sarcasm. His glare flicks between me and Zach, sharp and unrelenting, but it lingers on me like a spotlight I can’t escape.
I narrow my eyes at him, crossing my arms. “What’s your problem, Griffin?”
“My problem?” Hayes shoots back, his voice hard. “You two slacking off while the rest of us are out here working. You do know we’ve got our first game of the season next week, right?”
Zach chuckles beside me, unfazed. “Relax, Griffin. We were just having a conversation. Or is that against team policy now?”
Hayes turns to glare at Zach, “Nash, maybe you should focus less on talking and more on actually playing. Last I checked, we’re trying to win games, not host a damn talk show.” His tone is sharp, biting, and the tension between us is palpable.
“Wow. So much hostility,” Zach mutters under his breath, loud enough for me to hear.
“Excuse me?” Hayes skates forward, his gaze hard and piercing and fixed on Zach. “What did you just say?”
“Back off, Hayes,” I step in, fixing him with a glare. “We were just talking.”
“Miller, Griffin, and Nash. Is there a problem?” Coach Rivera calls. Hayes skates back, turning to face Coach Rivera.
“No problem, Coach,” Hayes says, putting up his fake smile as he turns to glare at me and Zach from above his shoulder.
“Miller?”
“No problem, sir,” I say, casting a quick glance and a glare at Hayes.
“Then scatter,” Coach Rivera calls, his voice authoritative and echoing across the rink.
The sharp sound of skates cutting into the ice fills the rink, mingling with the echo of Coach Rivera’s whistle as we skate toward center ice. Coach Rivera divides us into teams for the scrimmage and—of fucking course—Hayes ends up on my side.
The moment he calls out the teams, my stomach sinks. Hayes and I are on the same line. Because nothing says team bonding like being forced to skate beside the self-appointed king of the rink.
Hayes glides over to our side, effortless and controlled, like he owns the ice beneath his blades. He doesn’t say anything as he adjusts his gloves, but his dark eyes flick toward me briefly—measuring, challenging. The look says it all: keep up, or get out of my way.
“Great,” I mutter under my breath, gripping my stick tighter.
Lance, skating past with the opposing team, flashes an amused grin. “This should be fun to watch,” he calls. “Try not to kill each other out there, yeah?”
Hayes smirks, confidence sitting on him like a crown. “Relax, Lance. Miller knows how to follow orders.” His gaze slides back to me, sharp and taunting. “Don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I shoot back, my tone cold. “As long as they’re coming from Coach—not you.”
For a split second, something dark flashes in his eyes. Then the whistle blows.
“Let’s go!” Coach Rivera barks. “I want intensity! Work together, or everyone’s skating sprints after practice!”
Hayes and I lock eyes one last time before taking our positions, the tension snapping tight between us like a pulled wire.
The puck drops.
From the start, it’s obvious that skating with Hayes is going to be a battle.
He’s fast—too fast—and he plays like the ice bends to his will.
He holds onto the puck longer than necessary, driving plays himself, forcing the game to orbit around him.
Every move feels less like teamwork and more like a power play.
“Griffin, pass!” I shout, cutting into open ice.
He ignores me. Takes the shot.
It goes wide.
My jaw clenches as I skate toward him while the play resets. “You know this is a scrimmage, right?” I snap. “Not your personal coronation.”
He brushes past me, smirk sharp as a blade. “Maybe if you kept up, I’d trust you with the puck.”
Fine.
The next play, I don’t wait for him. I steal the puck clean from the opposing team, push hard down the ice, and take the shot without even glancing his way.
The puck slams into the back of the net.
The sound is pure satisfaction.
Coach Rivera nods at me, approval clear on his face, and something in my chest loosens—just a little.
Hayes skates over, the smugness gone, his expression tight with irritation. “Nice shot,” he says, clipped. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
I step closer, meeting his glare head-on. “It’s not about being the shit, Griffin,” I say quietly. “It’s about winning.”
I lean in just enough for him to hear me over the scrape of skates and the hum of the rink. “It’s not about being the shit, Griffin. It’s about winning. Maybe you should try working with me instead of against me for once.”