Forced To Room With My Hockey Rival

THREE

Moxie’s POV

I sat there. My hands rested stiffly on my knees, fingers curled tightly into the fabric of my sweatpants. My mind was somewhere else entirely.

“...Moxie? Did you hear what I said?”

Quince’s voice floated toward me from the back seat.

I blinked slowly, realizing I hadn’t heard a single word she’d spoken since we got into the car.

My gaze shifted slightly toward the driver.

George.

Even thinking his name made something twist uncomfortably in my chest.

The same arrogant guy whose smug expression I had sworn I would never forget. And now he was sitting inches away from me, hands casually resting on the steering wheel like this situation was completely normal.

My best friend’s stepbrother.

The words still didn’t feel real. “Moxie?” Quince leaned forward again, her face appearing between the seats.

“You’re zoning out. I asked what happened tonight.”

Her eyes flicked toward the faint bruise forming on my cheek.

“I’m fine,” I said quietly. That was a lie, obviously. But it was the only answer I had energy for.

Quince frowned. “That doesn’t look like fine.” She started reaching toward my face, probably trying to inspect the injury more closely. But before her fingers could touch me, my body reacted instinctively.

I jerked back, and her hand froze midair. The car fell silent.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured quickly, staring down at my hands. “I just… want to rest for a bit.”

Quince hesitated. Then she slowly pulled her hand back. “Okay,” she said softly. The car finally started moving.

George.

I couldn’t help but throw him another glance. He hadn’t spoken since we got in the car. Not a single word. That silence somehow made everything worse.

Because my mind kept drifting back to the last time we had been in the same space. It was the state hockey tournament. It felt like a lifetime ago. But the memories were still painfully clear in my head. That tournament had taken place only a few months after my entire world collapsed. By the time the tournament began, I was barely holding myself together. But I refused to step away from hockey. It was the only thing in my life that still felt like mine.

At school, people looked at me differently after my parents died. They looked at me like I was something fragile, and I hated it. Even my coach had pulled me aside one afternoon.

“Moxie,” he said gently, “maybe you should take a break this season.”

The suggestion felt like a slap to my face. A break meant stepping aside. It meant letting people think I couldn’t handle it. I blatantly refused and trained harder than ever.

When the tournament started, I played like someone who was possessed. Game after game, I pushed my body to the limit. I scored more points than anyone expected. Our team advanced through the bracket round by round. By the time we reached the finals, everyone was talking about our chances of winning and how they had increased.

That was when we faced George’s team. I still remember the moment they entered the arena. His team walked in like they owned the place. Tall players in clean uniforms, laughing confidently as cheerleaders crowded around them. And at the center of it all was George. Even back then, it was impossible not to notice him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features that made him stand out immediately.

Girls whispered about him constantly. Not just because of his looks. But because he played like a star. He was so good that he was the captain of his team.

When our eyes met across the rink that day, he smirked.

That smirk instantly annoyed me. The whistle sounded, and the game started fast. Both teams pushed hard from the first minute. At first, the match stayed balanced. But as the game continued, George began focusing on me. Every time I tried to advance the puck, he was there intercepting and blocking me. Our skates clashed more times than I could count.

At one point, he slammed me into the rink boards while trying to steal the puck. He didn’t even look apologetic. Just gave me that same irritating grin. The score remained close until the final minutes. Just one point separated us, and the entire arena felt electric. My lungs burned as I chased the puck across the ice, aware that this was probably our last chance. If we didn’t score now, the championship would slip away. I spotted an opening near the goal. One of my teammates was positioned perfectly for a pass.

But George was closing in fast. knew I wouldn’t have time to reposition, so I took the risk. I launched the pass anyway. The puck left my stick just as George collided with me. My skates lost balance instantly, and I hit the ice hard. Through the blur of motion, I saw George intercept the puck. He moved like lightning.

Seconds later, the horn sounded.

The game was over, and his team had won. I lay there on the ice, chest heaving as the reality sank in. We had come so far only to lose at the very end.

George appeared above me, blocking the bright arena lights. He looked down with that same confident expression. “Looks like we won,” he said casually. The words felt like salt poured into a wound.

Around us, his teammates gathered. Some laughed at me, and some made mocking comments about the “star player” who couldn’t finish the game. I felt so humiliated that day.

But it didn’t end there. A few days later, the awards ceremony took place. I still attended even though the loss hurt. I told myself I needed to face it. When I walked across the stage to receive my individual recognition, everything seemed normal. Until someone’s foot suddenly caught mine.

I stumbled forward, but before I could fall completely, a hand grabbed my arm.

It was George.

He looked at me with what appeared to be concern.

“Careful,” he said.

The touch triggered something deep in my mind, a flashback of Dustin grabbing me and forcing me down.

The feeling of helplessness.

My body reacted before I could think. I shoved George away hard, shocking everyone around us. The crowd gasped and began to murmur.

“Wow.”

“What’s her problem?”

“He was helping her.”

George’s teammates looked furious. To them, I must have seemed ungrateful. But in that moment, all I felt was panic and anger. From that day on, George became the person I blamed for everything connected to that humiliation.

He was my rival and enemy. And now…

Now he was driving the car that was taking me to safety. The irony felt almost unreal.

“Moxie?” Quince’s voice broke through my thoughts again. A warm hand suddenly touched my shoulder. The contact jolted me back to the present.

My body reacted instantly, and I pushed the hand away.

Quince froze at this. I realized what I’d done and quickly looked away. “It’s nothing,” I said quietly. My voice sounded tired even to my own ears. “I just… want some quiet time.”

Quince studied me for a moment. Then she leaned back into her seat. “Alright,” she said gently.