14 | The hockey rink

"And if you're ever tired of being known for who you know, you know you'll always have me."

Willa

𓇼𓇼𓇼𓇼

The rink feels different tonight.

Colder.

Heavier.

It's the same place I've been coming to for years, the same familiar scent of ice and sweat, the same rhythmic scrape of skates against the ice, but Dominic West is back.

And nothing feels the same.

Alex and I settle into the bleachers like always, her legs crossed as she scrolls through her phone, but I can't seem to relax. My fingers curl around the edge of my seat as I watch them skate onto the ice. Alec and Roman take their usual places, both moving with the kind of ease that comes from years of playing together. And then there's Dominic.

Even now, even after everything, my eyes find him first.

He rolls his shoulders, adjusting his gloves before gripping his stick, his jaw tense. He looks like he belongs here, like he never left, but I know better.

He never wanted to come back.

And yet, here he is.

A presence.

A force.

The three of them—Dominic, Alec, and Roman—are basically the holy trinity of our school's hockey scene. Untouchable. Unchallenged. They don't just play the game; they own it. The underclassmen worship them, the juniors tread carefully, and even the coach lets them get away with more than anyone else. They dictate the ice, and off of it, they carry the same unshakable presence.

I don't even have to see their faces to know who they are.

I know them by the numbers on their jerseys, the names stitched across their backs.

14 WEST. Dominic.

33 ALORE. Alec.

89 WHITE. Roman.

It's been like this forever. Them on the ice. Us in the stands.

Alex and I have been watching their hockey practices since the fourth grade, back when we had to sit on top of our backpacks just to see over the railing. When we used to bring snacks and make up ridiculous commentary, giggling behind our hands when Alec and Roman tripped over each other. When Dominic was just Dom—loud, cocky, grinning at me from across the rink before shoving Alec into the boards.

Back then, this was fun.

Back then, I didn't watch with a pit in my stomach.

But now?

Now, Dominic is watching me.

I can feel it even before I look up, even before our gazes catch across the rink and the air shifts between us.

My stomach clenches.

Then, just as quickly as he met my eyes, he looks away.

He grips his stick tighter, skates toward the others, and just like that, I can breathe again.

Barely.

"Ladies," a familiar voice greets.

Alex and I glance up as Coach Daniels approaches, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. His gaze flickers toward the ice, the faintest hint of amusement in his features.

"Back again?"

"You know we can't resist," Alex replies, flashing him a smirk. "Someone's gotta keep Alec and Roman in check."

Coach chuckles, shaking his head. "Good luck with that." Then, after a brief pause, his tone shifts, more speculative. "Dominic's first practice back. Could be interesting."

Interesting.

That's one way to put it.

I hum under my breath, but I don't say anything.

Because I already know how this is going to go.

Practice starts.

And from the moment Dominic hits the ice, I feel it.

The shift.

The quiet intensity that rolls off him in waves, the sheer force of his presence as he carves across the rink. Even now, after months away, he's sharp.

Precise. Unforgiving.

But then there's Ben.

Ben Carter, who won't stop staring at me.

Alex nudges my knee. "He's so obvious it's painful."

I roll my eyes, keeping my focus on the rink. "It's not like that."

"He wants it to be."

Before I can argue, the team takes a water break.

And that's when I feel him again.

Dominic.

Watching.

Waiting.

I glance his way, my breath catching at the sharpness of his expression.

His fingers tighten around his water bottle, his jaw locked as he tracks Ben's movement.

And when practice starts again?

I already know what's coming.

It starts subtle.

Dom has always been aggressive on the ice—it's part of why he's so good—but tonight?

Tonight, every time Ben touches the puck, Dom is there.

Blocking. Cutting him off. Hitting too hard.

Then it stops being subtle.

Ben barely gets his hands on the puck before Dom slams him into the boards.

The impact echoes through the rink.

Ben groans, pushing himself up, and Dom doesn't even spare him a glance as he skates away.

Instead, his gaze lifts.

Finds mine.

The air crackles between us, thick with something unspoken, something undeniable, and I know—I know—this isn't just about hockey.

This is about me.

About Ben looking at me.

About Dom seeing it.

And for the first time in months, I don't know what to do with that.

Practice ends.

The team trickles off the ice, filing toward the locker room in groups, stretching out sore muscles, tugging off helmets, chatting.

Dom lags behind.

I should leave.

I should stand up and walk away.

Instead, I stay.

I stay, pulse hammering as he steps off the ice and stops in front of me.

The rink is quieter now, the hum of the lights overhead the only sound between us. Alex left to the bathroom a few minutes ago, leaving me with guarding her stuff.

His brown eyes flicker over me, something unreadable settling in them before he exhales.

"You don't have to look so miserable, Butterfly."

My breath stutters at the nickname.

I force my voice to stay neutral. "I'm not."

His lips twitch, but it isn't amusement. "Could've fooled me."

I exhale slowly. "You were kind of an ass to Ben."

Dom doesn't even hesitate. "He should keep his eyes on the game instead of you."

My stomach twists.

There's something sharp in his tone, something possessive.

And I don't know what to do with it.

So I do what I always do.

I push.

"Jealous?" I tilt my head, crossing my arms.

Dom's jaw ticks.

His silence is loud.

Then, finally—

"I'm always jealous."

The quiet confession makes my pulse spike.

"I'm jealous of anyone who gets to be around you. Who gets to talk to you. Who gets to feel your sunshine." His voice is rough, like the words cost him something. "Because I used to have that. And now I don't."

The air leaves my lungs.

For a moment, I forget how to breathe.

He doesn't look away.

Doesn't shift.

Doesn't take it back.

I swallow. "Dom—"

"I meant what I said." His voice drops lower, softer, but there's an edge to it. "I'm not giving up on you."

I stare at him, my throat tight.

I should tell him he already lost me.

I should tell him that it's too late.

But the problem with lying to him?

He'd see right through it.

So I don't say anything.

I just sit there, hands curled into fists in my lap, my heart racing as the rest of the team filters into the locker room.

And for the first time in a long time—

I don't look away.

𓇼𓇼𓇼𓇼

HAIIIIIII

guys I can't believe they haven't technically kissed yet - I mean I know they obviously kissed cause they had sex but like do u get what I mean.....