Offside Hearts

Chapter 4

♥Isla♥

The second hockey game came faster than I expected.

I hadn't planned on going again. To be honest, I thought the first one was a one-time thing. One favor to my friends, something I could quietly move on from. But Nadia and Cleo had other plans.

"Come on, Isla," Nadia whined, tugging on my arm as I stood by the door. "We already bought the tickets."

"Since last weekend?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Exactly," Cleo chimed in with a grin, slipping on her jacket. "Don't ruin the tradition."

I sighed, arms crossed, but in the end, I let them drag me along. Mostly because it was easier than arguing, and maybe, deep down, because something about the electric rush of the arena had stuck with me more than I wanted to admit.

By the time we made it to the rink, the place was packed again.

The same wild energy coming from the crowd. It was loud. Overwhelming. And weirdly addictive.

We found our seats near center ice, and Cleo was already shouting over the noise, pointing out players as they warmed up.

"There he is," Nadia practically swooned, waving toward the ice. "Sebastian. Number eighteen."

"Your future husband," Cleo teased.

Nadia laughed. "A girl can dream."

I smiled faintly, pulling my coat tighter around me.

The players looked like shadows at this distance, faces hidden beneath helmets, movements sharp and practiced.

The announcer's voice boomed overhead. The puck dropped. The game began.

I tried not to pay too much attention. I really did.

But my eyes kept drifting, searching without meaning to, until I found number nine.

The captain.

I exhaled sharply, tearing my gaze away, but something about it stuck.

Nadia and Cleo were busy laughing, snapping blurry photos of the players, debating who was hottest like this was some kind of live-action dating app.

And me?

I sat there quietly, pretending not to care, pretending the pounding of my heart beating wildly was from the deafening noise and not from the way my thoughts kept straying toward places I had no business exploring.

The second period kicked off with an explosive surge of intensity. Bodies collided violently along the boards, blades cutting sharp, aggressive arcs into the ice.

The crowd grew rowdier by the minute.

I kept watching not because I wanted to care, but because looking away felt nearly impossible.

There was a mesmerizing, almost hypnotic quality to it all. Then, everything fractured.

It began with a brutal hit.

One of our guys sent an opposing player flying backward into the Plexiglas with a sickening thud.

The arena erupted in approval, but the moment the downed player scrambled back to his feet, gloves were off and bare fists were flying.

An outright brawl exploded at center ice.

I sat up straight, my heart leaping into my throat.

Two figures clashed in a frantic haze of flying fists and snarling expressions.

One of them, number nine snatched off his helmet and seized his opponent by the collar, slamming him hard onto the ice as they both crashed down into a violent heap.

"Holy s**t," Cleo gasped, scrambling half out of her seat. "Is that Ashton?"

I couldn't answer. My eyes remained glued to the chaos unfolding on the ice.

This wasn't just standard game-day aggression. It ran deeper and darker.

Ashton's expression was completely unrecognizable. Gone was the effortless, smirking confidence I remembered from the party. There was no charm here, no cockiness. Just fury.

The referees swarmed in, tearing the players apart, but the damage was already done. Blood trickled down Ashton's split lip, and his knuckles were bruised.

Even as official hands dragged him toward the penalty box, his chest heaved heavily, as if he couldn't quite pull himself back from whatever he had crossed.

The crowd went wild around us, a split dynamic of deafening cheers and furious boos. I sat frozen in my seat, my pulse hammering against my ribs for reasons I refused to admit to myself.

"He’s going to end up suspended if he keeps pulling stuff like that," Nadia muttered, her eyes wide with shock.

I stayed silent, my eyes fixed on Ashton as he skated off, blood smeared across his face and his gaze was hard.

He didn't spare a glance toward the cheering spectators.

Yet, for a fraction of a second, his head snapped up, his gaze scanning the stands as if searching for something or someone.

I averted my eyes before he could catch me looking.

♦ Ashton's pov♦

The penalty box door slammed shut with a heavy, noise that echoed. My chest heaved, my lungs burning as I ripped off my helmet and threw it onto the bench beside me.

"f**k!," I muttered under my breath, pressing the back of my hand against my lip to wipe away the blood.

Out in the arena, the crowd was still going crazy.

Half the stadium stood on their feet, screaming like they’d just witnessed the main event of the night. Some cheered, some jeered, but none of it mattered to me. None of them meant a damn thing.

I ran a hand through my sweat-drenched hair, wincing as my knuckles throbbed.

I felt the ache in my muscles and the rush of pure adrenaline surging through my veins. I couldn't even pinpoint what had triggered the explosion this time.

Scratch that. I knew exactly what it was.

It was everything. The suffocating weight of expectations. The noise. The endless friction.

Habit took over, and I wiped my bleeding lip again, my eyes idly scanning the packed arena without expecting to see anyone in particular.

And then, my eyes locked on her.

Her. The girl from the party. The one who hadn't fallen for my charm, who'd looked right through my cocky facade like she could read every lie behind it and wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.

Isla.

She was sitting high in the stands, arms folded across her chest, her expression completely unreadable. She wasn't cheering with the crowd, nor was she distracted by her phone. She was just watching me.

I dropped my gaze before she could catch me staring.

I shoved my mouth guard back into place, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees as I tried to force an aura of total composure.

I needed to act like this entire spectacle meant nothing to me.

I was used to it all, the deafening noise, the crushing expectations, the frequent brawls. It was just the game. Just the life I had chosen.

So why the hell did it feel so different this time? Why did it feel so personal?

I hated it.

The penalty timer ticked down on the glass display ahead, but the numbers were just a blur.

I flexed my fingers, wincing as my split knuckles began to throb and swell. I clenched my jaw tight until the muscles in my face ached.

Stupid.

Out of control. Again.

I always knew better. Every single time I let my temper get the best of me, every time that dark switch flipped inside my head, I could instantly feel the shift in the room.

I could see it in their eyes: the coaches, the scouts, the entire world.

They didn't want a liability. They wanted the flawless golden-boy captain, the poster boy for the hockey program.

Not this version of me. Not whatever mess I am right now.

I let out a low, slow breath through my nose, dropping my head until my chin rested heavily against my padded gloves.

I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes until bright bursts of light flashed behind my eyelids.

I was fine. It was fine. I always pulled myself back together in the end. I always swept the wreckage under the rug. Smile, skate, score. Play the exact role everyone expected me to play.

Except... her.

That girl, Isla

She had no business occupying my mind right now. I didn't even know her. Yet the way she had looked at me like she saw right through every layer of my bullshit refused to leave my head.

People always looked at me one of two ways: either they wanted something from me, or they were waiting with bated breath to watch me crash and burn.

Not Isla.

She just watched. Cool, detached, completely unimpressed.

And somehow, that quiet indifference rattled me deeper than any fistfight ever could.

The buzzer chimed, signaling my penalty was served. Time was up.

I stood, rolling my shoulders to loosen the tension, and pulled my helmet back down over my head, smoothing my expression into a blank mask.

The performance wasn't over just yet.

By the time the final horn sounded, the game was a blur.

We took the win. The locker room was pure chaos as the guys slammed their sticks against the bench partitions, helmets clattering together while they shouted and shoved each other in celebration.

Another check in the win column. Another flashy headline to keep the board happy.

I skated off the ice behind them, my heart still pounding hard against my ribs.

The moment the heavy locker room door slammed shut behind us, the noise shifted.

I unstrapped my gloves slowly, flexing my fingers as the fresh stings flared up. Smudges of dark, dried blood coated my knuckles, though I barely registered the pain.

"Hell of a hit, Cap," one of the guys called out with a laugh, clapping a heavy hand against my shoulder pad as he walked past. "Note to self: stay on your good side."

I flashed him my usual lazy smirk and tossed out an effortless shrug, playing the part seamlessly. Let them laugh. Let them convince themselves it was just heat-of-the-moment hockey.

If only they knew.

I sank onto the bench in front of my locker, lowering my head as I began unlacing my gear.

My hands were trembling slightly not from fear but exhaustion.

The house was already packed when I got there.

Music blasted from blown-out speakers.

Voices loud, slurred, half-shouting, filled every room. Beer. Sweat. Perfume. The air was thick with it. The kind of party I should've wanted. The kind of party I usually owned.

I didn't.

I forced the smirk anyway as I wove through the crowd, hands shoved deep into my pockets. Guys clapped me on the back, shots were shoved into my hand, and I went through the motions, because that's what I did. Ashton Moore: captain, life of the party.

"Ash!" someone called, shoving a red cup at me.

I barely looked at them, flashing the automatic grin. "Appreciate it."

I tipped the cup back, the burn of cheap whiskey cutting down the edges of my nerves, but it didn't hit the way it used to.

Nothing really did.

I kept moving. Every room was crowded, people grinding, drinking, laughing too loud. Half of them wouldn't even remember this night. Hell, I wouldn't either if I could help it.

My knuckles still throbbed. My lip stung. I swiped my tongue over the split, tasting blood. Another shot appeared in my hand. I didn't ask questions.

I should've felt alive in all of this.

I leaned against the kitchen counter, eyes skimming the crowd. More faces. More meaningless smiles. Girls who looked through me like I was a prize.

Guys who wanted to be me or beat me.

And then, without warning, her.

Isla. Across the room.

I didn't even know why I noticed her. She wasn't dressed like the others, nothing flashy, nothing loud. She stood back slightly, a drink in hand, her friends talking around her while she scanned the room like she didn't belong here either.

Something twisted in my chest.

I looked away fast, jaw tight. Took another drink.

I shouldn't care.

I didn't want to care. But for some reason, the room felt smaller. Hotter.

The music became louder.

I exhaled sharply, shaking it off. I was fine. This was nothing. I was good at faking it.

And tonight, I'd fake it like I always did.

The burn of whiskey barely registered anymore.

I tossed the empty cup onto the counter and rubbed the back of my neck, the noise of the party closing in, too loud, too sharp.

I caught glimpses, flashes of fists, the sound of skin on skin, the sharp c***k of the hit. It looped in the back of my head like some kind of sick highlight reel. And the worst part? Part of me wanted to do it all over again.

I blew out a breath, shoving a hand through my hair.

"Ash!" A voice called my name, pulling me sideways as a girl, blonde, too much perfume, grabbed my arm, leaning in close. "You killed it tonight."

I gave her the lazy smirk. The one people expected. "Yeah?"

She giggled, pressing closer. "We're celebrating later. You should come find me."

I nodded without really hearing her. My eyes flicked over her shoulder, past her, past the bodies moving to the music.

And there she was again. Isla.

I didn't even realize I was looking for her until I found her.

She wasn't paying attention to me. Not even close. She was laughing at something one of her friends said, her head tilted slightly, the barest curve of a smile on her lips.

But her body language told a different story, arms crossed, weight shifted back. Like she was keeping herself separate from the noise, like she wasn't really here even though she was.

I swallowed hard, jaw flexing. Something twisted sharp in my gut. Restless. Uneasy.

I didn't know her. I wasn't interested. This wasn't anything.

And yet. I blinked hard, dragging my gaze away, scrubbing a hand across my mouth. Another drink.

Another distraction. Anything to shake the weight of whatever the hell this was.

Because the longer I stood here, the more the noise started to fade.

Another shot landed in my hand before I even asked for it.

I barely glanced at whoever handed it to me. Some guy from the team. Some girl I didn't know. It didn't matter. The burn hit the back of my throat, sharper this time, and I welcomed it, wanted it, even. Anything to take the edge off.

But it didn't. Not enough.

Isla. Still on the edges. Still not watching me. Still not part of this world.

I wasn't sure I could stop looking at her but I found myself walking toward her, the noise of the party fading out bit by bit.