CHAPTER 31
The parking lot is eerily quiet at the crack of dawn as I kill the engine.
Hayes’ car sits across the lot, sleek and black, already there—of course it is.
My jaw tightens. A one-on-one scrimmage with Hayes Griffin feels like a disaster waiting to happen, and Coach Rivera calling it bonding is a fucking joke.
I reach into the compartment and pull out my cigarettes, shaking one loose between my fingers.
Leaning back against the headrest, I flick my lighter.
The flame flares briefly, casting a soft glow inside the car before I inhale.
The first drag burns my lungs in a way that steadies me, dulls the edge of the nerves I don’t want to acknowledge.
I shouldn’t be nervous. This is just hockey. Just another early practice.
And yet my chest tightens anyway.
My eyes drift back to Hayes’ car. He’s probably already on the ice, skating lazy circles like the place belongs to him. Like it always has. I scoff under my breath and tap the ash out the window before crushing the cigarette and tossing it aside.
Gear slung over my shoulder, I step out into the cold. The air bites immediately, sharp and unforgiving, and I zip my jacket as I cross the empty lot. Every step echoes, the sound too loud in the quiet, like the rink itself is holding its breath.
I change into my gear in the locker room and sling my bag over my shoulder before heading toward the rink.
The moment I push through the doors, the sharp chill hits me, curling against my skin in a way that’s both familiar and grounding.
The rink is mostly dark, save for the harsh overhead lights spilling onto the ice, illuminating the pristine surface like a spotlight.
And there he is.
Hayes moves across the ice with effortless precision, alone, focused entirely on the puck gliding under his control.
The scrape of his skates cuts clean lines through the silence, the rhythmic tap of puck against stick echoing softly through the space.
He doesn’t notice me at first, too locked in, too at home.
I hate how good he is.
Every turn is sharp. Controlled. Confident. He moves like the rink is an extension of his body, like the ice responds to him without question. For a second, I let myself watch—caught between irritation and something else I don’t want to name.
Something dangerous.
The way his jersey clings to his back, damp with sweat, outlining muscle I wish I didn’t notice, doesn’t help with the way I’m feeling right now.
Neither does the fact that he’s alone, unaware, completely unguarded in his element.
His hair, messy and damp from the effort, falls just enough to shadow his face every time he stops and switches direction.
I hate that I notice. Hate that I’m even thinking about how good he looks out there.
But it’s hard not to when he’s the only one on the ice—the only thing moving in the silence.
What the hell is wrong with me?
As if sensing me, Hayes suddenly looks up.
His smirk spreads instantly, sharp and cocky the moment his eyes meet mine. He slows to a stop at center ice, resting his stick lazily against his shoulder like he owns the place.
“If it isn’t Broody Miller,” he calls, his voice echoing through the empty rink.
“Griffin,” I reply flatly, dropping my bag onto the bench. “Don’t you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?”
“Not when it gets under your skin,” he shoots back, skating closer before stopping just short of the boards. He leans his stick against the plexiglass, resting his arms on top of it as he looks down at me. “Coach said we’re supposed to bond, you know. Maybe try smiling for once.”
“Maybe try shutting up,” I mutter, pulling out my skates and starting on the laces.
He laughs—low, warm—and I hate how my stomach flips at the sound. “This is gonna be fun,” he says, pushing off the boards and skating backward, effortlessly.
I roll my eyes, and against my better judgment, my gaze flicks over him—how annoyingly good he looks in his gear, how natural he is on the ice. “I didn’t realize this was your personal playground.”
“It is when I’m the only one here,” he says easily. “Didn’t think you’d show.”
“You’re not that lucky,” I mutter.
He laughs again, softer this time, teasing, and it crawls under my skin. Or maybe it does something else—I don’t let myself figure out which. I keep my head down, tying my skates tighter than necessary, focusing on the laces instead of the weight of his stare.
“So,” he says casually, like he’s not watching my every move. “You ready to lose?”
I snort, finally standing and stepping onto the ice. The cold bites at my cheeks—sharp, grounding, familiar. “Big words for someone who’s been skating in circles by himself.”
“Call it a warm-up,” he says, backing up as I glide toward him. “Gotta stay sharp. Can’t let you think you have a chance.”
“Keep talking, Griffin,” I say evenly as I close the distance between us. “We’ll see who’s still standing when this is over.”
“Sure thing, Miller,” he murmurs, voice dropping as his eyes rake over me—slow, deliberate. “Had a good night last night?”
Heat coils low in my gut at the way he looks at me, like he already knows the answer. My grip tightens on my stick as I force myself to meet his gaze, refusing to let him see the way my pulse jumps.
His smirk deepens.
He knows.
“Just fine,” I say, keeping my voice steady even as heat spreads through my chest. “Why? Lose sleep thinking about me?”
His smirk falters for half a second—but it’s enough.
Enough to make something twist low in my gut.
Satisfaction, maybe. Or something more dangerous.
It’s hard to tell with him. He recovers quickly, rolling his shoulders and leaning lazily on his stick, but his eyes narrow, measuring now instead of mocking.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, though the edge is dulled, replaced by something more controlled. “I’ve got better things to think about.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I mutter, skating past him toward center ice. I keep my eyes forward, focusing on the scrape of my blades, the cold biting into my lungs—but his presence sticks to me, heavy and inescapable, like a shadow I can’t outrun.
He follows, smooth and deliberate, every movement calculated. He doesn’t rush. Kings don’t. “Ready to lose, Miller?” he asks again, lighter now, teasing—but there’s a challenge beneath it.
I turn to face him, dropping into position. “Keep dreaming, Griffin.”
We set the rules fast. First to five. No goalies. No mercy. Just skill and pride.
The puck drops.
Hayes moves first—too fast. He slips past me like he’s been waiting for the opening, the puck gliding cleanly into the net before I can even adjust. He lifts his stick in a mock salute, smirk firmly back in place.
“One–nothing,” he says, skating backward like the ice belongs to him. “Try to keep up.”
My jaw tightens.
Next drop, I’m ready.
I beat him to the puck, drive forward, push my legs until they burn. He reaches, misses. I line up the shot and send it home hard.
The sound of the puck hitting the net is pure satisfaction.
“Guess you’re not the only one with moves,” I say, skating back to center.
This time, his smirk doesn’t fully recover.
“Alright, Miller,” he says, quieter now. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The game escalates fast—stolen pucks, clipped shoulders, near misses that leave us breathing hard. Every pass feels personal. Every glance heavier than the last. The score climbs until we’re tied at four, sweat dripping, legs screaming, the air between us stretched tight enough to snap.
Hayes circles me with the puck, eyes sharp, calculating. A crown doesn’t slip easily.
“Getting tired?” he taunts, flicking the puck between his skates. “You’re slowing down.”
“Funny,” I snap, closing in. “You’re the one breathing hard.”
His grin flashes quick and dangerous before he spins—too smooth, too practiced. I lunge, barely stealing the puck at the last second. Instead of backing off, he moves closer, crowding my space, his smirk shifting into something darker. Intentional.
Playful.
“You always this easy to bait?” he asks, leaning on his stick as I pause at center ice.
I roll my eyes, forcing my focus back onto the game, but then his tone shifts—quieter, deliberate, like he’s stepping somewhere dangerous.
“You remember that summer at camp?”
I freeze for half a second, my grip tightening around my stick. “What about it?”
Hayes shrugs, skating backward in an unhurried circle. “That stupid three-legged race. You tripped over my foot, and we both face-planted in front of everyone.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it, the memory hitting hard and fast. Middle school. Before everything went to shit. “You tripped me,” I say. “Your big-ass feet got tangled in the rope.”
He chuckles, shoulders shaking. “I still say you dragged me down on purpose.”
“You wish,” I mutter, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. For a brief moment, the ice feels less hostile. The air between us eases, just enough to breathe.
“Back then,” Hayes says suddenly, his gaze fixed everywhere but me, “you were really good on the ice.”
I glance at him.
He bites his bottom lip, caught in the memory. “You were shy. Quiet. Always kept your head down.” His voice drops. “But the second you stepped onto the ice… it was like you became someone else. Confident. Fearless. Like nothing could touch you.”
Something tightens in my chest.
That boy feels like a lifetime ago.
“Yeah, well,” I say, gripping my stick harder, grounding myself, “you took that away from me. Remember?” My jaw clenches. “You made me quit. Made me lie to my family and say I just didn’t care about hockey anymore.”
His smirk falters.
For the first time tonight, Hayes looks unsettled.
His gaze drops to the ice, his stick dragging as he skates a slow, distracted circle. “I didn’t make you quit,” he says quietly. “You chose to leave.”