CHAPTER 32
HAYES
I don’t go after him.
That’s the first thing I notice—my skates planted, my body frozen, my hands still half-open like they’re expecting him to come back. Like muscle memory hasn’t caught up to reality yet.
Dakota Miller walks away from me, and I let him.
My lips burn where his were. Not in a good way.
Not clean. It’s sharp, electric, like my body’s been branded with something it doesn’t know how to carry.
My chest feels too tight, my breath coming in shallow pulls as I stare at the empty space he left behind.
The ice beneath my skates suddenly feels unstable—slick, unreliable—like the ground just shifted under my feet and I didn’t see it coming.
Fuck.
That wasn’t supposed to happen.
I drag a hand down my face, fingers trembling as they pass my mouth. I can still feel him—his anger, his heat, the way he kissed like he was trying to punish me and himself at the same time. Like he’d waited years to do it and hated himself for wanting it even as it happened.
I’ve taken hits harder than that. Broken bones. Blood in my mouth. Losses that should’ve wrecked me.
None of them felt like this.
Dakota didn’t kiss me because he wanted me.
He kissed me because he felt me.
And that’s worse.
I swallow hard, jaw locking as I stare at the ice where his stick fell, where our helmets lie discarded like evidence of a crime we’re both pretending didn’t just happen. I told him to hit me. I told him to take his shot.
I didn’t expect him to take this one.
The worst part—the part I don’t want to admit even to myself—is that when he shoved me away, when he looked at me like I’d crossed a line I could never uncross, my first instinct wasn’t anger.
It was fear.
Because for the first time, I don’t feel like I have control anymore.
I don’t move for a long time.
The rink is quiet, quiet in a way that feels accusatory. Like it’s watching me. Like it saw everything and is waiting for me to explain myself.
I can still feel his mouth.
That’s the problem.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was heat and anger and years of shit packed into one reckless moment—and I let it happen. No. Worse. I started it.
My jaw tightens as I stare at the ice, at the faint scuff marks where his skates scraped when he shoved me away. I deserved that. Deserved more than that. Because the second my lips hit his, my brain went blank in the most terrifying way possible.
I didn’t think.
I felt.
And fuck me, it felt right.
That realization lands like a punch to the ribs.
I’ve kissed girls before. Plenty of them.
Easy, expected, forgettable. A performance I knew how to do without ever really being there.
But this—Dakota—this wasn’t anything like that.
There was no script. No control. Just this sharp, dangerous pull that made my chest ache and my hands shake like I was standing too close to the edge of something I couldn’t come back from.
This was my first time kissing a guy.
And it had to be him.
Dakota Miller. The one person I taught myself to hate because it was easier than admitting the truth.
Four years ago, I hurt him.
The memory hits me without warning—summer camp, the shed, the look on his face when he realized he’d trusted the wrong person. I see it every time I close my eyes. The fear. The confusion. The way he shrank into himself after, like something precious had been ripped out and stomped on.
I told myself I was angry. That he pushed me. That I was protecting myself.
Bullshit.
I was scared.
Scared of the way my chest tightened when he smiled at me. Scared of how close I wanted to be to him. Scared that one kiss back then made me feel seen in a way nothing else ever had.
So I did what cowards do.
I destroyed it.
And I’ve hated myself for it ever since.
My fingers curl into fists at my sides. I told him I was sorry—and I meant it—but sorry doesn’t touch the damage I did. It doesn’t undo the nights I lay awake replaying it, wondering what would’ve happened if I hadn’t panicked. If I hadn’t chosen cruelty over truth.
And now this.
Now he kissed me back like he’d been holding onto that moment too, like it haunted him the same way it haunted me.
That’s what scares me the most.
Not that I want him.
That I already had him once—and I ruined it.
I press my tongue against my teeth, jaw aching as I replay the way he pulled away, the look in his eyes like he’d just lost a fight he didn’t want to win. He thinks this is just another game to me. Another way for me to fuck with his head.
If only he knew.
If only he knew that the second he walked away, something in me cracked wide open. That I’ve never felt less like a king than I do right now—standing alone in my own damn rink, realizing I don’t want the crown if it means losing him again.
I don’t know what this makes me.
I don’t know what I’m allowed to want.
I don’t deserve him.
But that doesn’t stop the hunger.
The locker room smells like sweat and rubber and metal—normal, grounding things. I peel off my gloves, my jersey, my pads, each piece hitting the bench harder than it needs to. My hands won’t stop shaking.
Get it together.
I sit there longer than necessary, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor while my pulse refuses to slow. Every time I close my eyes, I feel him again—the way he shoved me, the way his anger cracked open into something raw and electric. The way he kissed back.
That’s the part that won’t let go.
Nothing prepared me for this.
For the way my body leaned toward him like it already knew. The way stopping felt impossible, like pulling away from a cliff edge after already stepping off.
I shove my feet into my shoes and stand, grabbing my bag. I don’t linger. If I stay any longer, I might do something stupid—like chase after him. Like say something I can’t take back.
The cold air hits me the second I step outside, sharp and biting. It doesn’t help.
The drive home is quiet. No music. Just the hum of the engine and my thoughts circling the same wreckage over and over again.
That kiss tonight wasn’t curiosity.
It wasn’t an impulse.
It was hunger I’ve been pretending didn’t exist.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening, because admitting that means admitting something else too—something I’ve spent years burying under noise and excuses.
I didn’t want him the way I wanted anyone else.
With girls, it was easy. Clean. I could walk away without looking back. I never needed them. Never thought about them afterward. Never felt this ache, this pull, this stupid, reckless need to be seen.
Dakota has always been different.
Even back then. Even when I was too much of a coward to understand what that meant.
Four years ago, I hurt him because it was easier than facing the truth—that the way he made me feel wasn’t anger, or rivalry, or disgust. It was fear. Desire. Something I didn’t have the language for and didn’t want to name.
So I destroyed it instead.
The realization sits heavy in my chest as I pull into my driveway.
I don’t want him because he’s forbidden.
I want him because he’s the first person who’s ever made me feel like this—like I’m standing too close to myself, like one wrong move and everything I’ve built will come crashing down.
And the worst part?
I don’t know how to want him without hurting him again.
I sit there with the engine running, forehead resting against the steering wheel, knowing one thing with brutal clarity:
That kiss didn’t end anything.
It started something that might ruin us both.
To be continued…