CHAPTER 31 #2
I laugh—short, bitter, sharp enough to echo off the boards. I pull off my helmet and let it drop onto the ice. “Yeah. I chose to leave after you made every practice hell. After you and your friends decided I was your personal punching bag.” I step closer. “Don’t act like you don’t remember.”
He flinches.
Good.
He removes his helmet too, tossing it aside like it suddenly weighs too much. “Look,” he says, tension bleeding into his voice. “I was a kid. I didn’t know what I was doing half the time. I—”
“Save it, Hayes,” I snap, cutting him off. “You knew exactly what you were doing.” My chest burns. “Fuck’s sake, you got off from it. And you never even apologized for what you did.”
The silence that follows is heavy—no crowd, no whistles, just the scrape of skates and everything we’ve never said hanging between us like a blade.
His jaw tightens, and for a moment I’m sure he’s going to argue. But instead, he exhales slowly, shoulders sagging just a fraction.
“You’re right,” he says, so quietly it almost gets swallowed by the empty rink. “I was a dick back then.” He hesitates, eyes flicking to mine before dropping to the ice again. “I’m sorry.”
The words hit harder than I expect.
I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t ready for him to actually say it—didn’t think he ever would. The apology hangs between us, thin and fragile, like if I breathe wrong it’ll shatter.
“Sorry doesn’t change anything,” I say after a long beat, my voice rough. “It doesn’t fix what you did.”
“I know,” he replies, meeting my gaze now, serious in a way I’ve never seen before. “But it’s all I’ve got.”
That honesty twists something ugly in my chest, and I hate it. Hate that I can see a glimpse of the boy he used to be—the one who wasn’t always cruel, who wasn’t always trying to break me.
But it doesn’t erase the past.
If anything, it pisses me off more.
How dare he drag up my history like this? How dare he talk about that version of me—like he didn’t destroy him? What is he trying to do? Hurt me? And then offer an apology like it’s supposed to make things right?
My grip tightens on my stick, knuckles whitening. Right now, I want to fucking hit him. Make him bleed for every pain he caused me.
“I’m sorry, Dakota,” Hayes says again, voice strained as he skates toward me, slow and careful. “I really am. I don’t know what you want me to do to prove it.” I can see the honesty in his eyes, but I don’t care.
“I’d stay the fuck away from me if I were you,” I snap, every word sharp. “Because right now? I just want to hurt you.”
He stops a few feet away, skates screeching softly against the ice. His jaw clenches, like he’s bracing himself. Then—unexpectedly—he steps closer.
“Then do it,” he says quietly. “If that’s what it takes—hit me.”
I blink. “What?”
He drops his stick to the ice with a sharp clatter and spreads his arms. “Go ahead, Dakota. Take your shot.”
I clench my fists, my chest heaving as the rage bubbles closer to the surface.
Part of me wants to take him up on it—to swing my stick, to let my fists connect with that stupid, smug face of his.
But another part of me hates that he’s standing there, offering himself up like this, like he’s trying to absolve himself with some noble act.
“You think this fixes anything?” I shout. “You think letting me hit you makes up for what you did?”
“No,” he says, arms falling back to his sides. His voice is steady, stripped bare. “But maybe it helps you let it go.”
I laugh bitterly, the sound harsh even to my own ears. “You don’t get it, do you? You don’t just get to decide when this is over.”
“I’m not deciding anything,” Hayes snaps back, his voice rising. “I’m trying, Dakota. For once, I’m trying. But all you ever do is push me away.”
“Can you blame me?” I shout, my voice echoing through the empty rink. “After everything you’ve done, do you honestly think I’m just going to let you in?”
He flinches, his expression hardening for a moment before something softer breaks through. “No,” he admits quietly. “I don’t. But I’m still here.”
The sincerity in his voice knocks the air from my lungs.
My hands tremble, my stick clenched so tight it feels like it might snap.
All the anger, the resentment, the confusion—it’s too much.
And he’s standing there, looking at me like he actually cares.
Like he wants me to see something in him I’ve been refusing to acknowledge for years.
“Fuck you,” I mutter—and shove him hard in the chest.
He stumbles back but doesn’t retaliate, his face unreadable.
“Feel better?” he asks quietly, almost resigned.
“No,” I growl, shoving him again, harder. “Not even close.”
This time he doesn’t move back. His hands shoot out, gripping my wrists and yanking me forward until my chest slams into his. The air between us turns thick, suffocating. My breath hitches as I look up at him—so close I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
His grip tightens for a beat—then he pulls me in and crashes his mouth against mine.
The kiss is brutal. Messy. All impulse and heat, like neither of us thought this through and didn’t care. My mind blanks for half a second—shock freezes me in place—then something inside me snaps.
I kiss him back.
My hands fist in his jersey, yanking him closer as my stick slips from my grip and clatters uselessly to the ice. It’s angry and desperate, years of tension detonating all at once. Teeth scrape, breath stutters, neither of us giving an inch.
I growl into his mouth, the sound vibrating between us. Hayes groans in response, deep and rough, and it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through me. My fingers tangle in his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt—and he doesn’t pull away.
I hate how good it feels. Hate how my body reacts, how my head spins, how the kiss turns feral and unbalanced. I push back into him, stealing space, matching him beat for beat.
It isn’t a kiss.
It’s a fight.
A collision of mouths and breath and buried fury, neither of us willing to yield, both of us trying to take something we don’t know how to ask for.
My skates shift against the ice as I start to move forward, pulling him with me.
The cold air brushes against my overheated skin, but it does nothing to cool the fire burning between us.
His hands are everywhere—my waist, my back, gripping me like he’s afraid I’ll pull away.
I hate the way it makes me feel—wanted, needed—but I hate even more how much I crave it.
I press closer, our chests colliding, and I tug at his hair again, harder this time.
He groans into my mouth, his fingers digging into my hips with enough force to bruise.
The sound sends a shiver down my spine, and I respond by biting his bottom lip, hard enough to make him hiss.
His lips part, and I take the opportunity to deepen the kiss, sliding my tongue against his in a way that makes my head spin.
It’s raw, messy, and filled with years of pent-up frustration spilling out in every movement.
His hands move up to my shoulders, pulling me tighter against him, and I can feel every inch of him, solid and warm and infuriatingly perfect.
My body reacts on its own, leaning into him, my hands tangling in his hair as the kiss becomes something even more desperate.
His lips leave mine for a fraction of a second, moving to my jawline, then my neck.
The scrape of his teeth against my skin makes me shudder, and I hate how easily he’s undoing me.
My grip on his jersey tightens, pulling him back up to capture his lips again, unable to stop myself from diving back into the chaos.
But then his hands tighten on my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I moan, hating myself for liking every bit of this.
How did we end up here? How the fuck did we get to this point—kissing, crashing into each other, saying everything we can’t say with our mouths instead of our voices? And why can’t I pull away, even when every instinct in me is screaming that I should?
I need to get out of here. Now. Before I do something even worse than this.
Reality slams into me all at once. My heart is pounding so hard it drowns out everything else—the scrape of our skates, the sound of our ragged breathing, the way the moment keeps trying to drag me under.
I shove him back hard, breaking the kiss.
My lips throb, swollen and tingling, as I stumble a step away, fighting to catch my breath.
Hayes staggers slightly, his hands still half-reaching for me like he doesn’t even realize I’m gone.
His face is flushed, his eyes dark with something I don’t want to name. Something I don’t want to understand.
“What the hell was that?” I rasp, my voice raw and wrecked.
He just stares at me for a second, chest rising and falling, like he’s as shaken as I am. The smugness is gone. The armor, stripped clean. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and hoarse.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But don’t pretend you didn’t feel it.”
The words slice straight through me.
Anger surges up fast, sharp enough to burn away the confusion. I clench my fists, my breathing still uneven. “Screw you, Hayes,” I mutter, my voice shaking with rage—and something else I refuse to name.
I turn away from him, skates scraping against the ice as I put distance between us. My head is spinning. My chest feels tight, like it might crack open. All I can think about is the way his mouth felt on mine—and the fact that I let it happen.
“Dakota,” he calls, softer now. Careful.
I don’t stop. I don’t turn around. I can’t.
I don’t know what the hell just happened between us, but I know one thing for sure—
Nothing between us will ever be the same again.