My mistake

Zoe

Every morning, I wake up before the sun rises and lace up my skates before most people even hit snooze on their alarms. The rink is cold and silent, the kind of quiet that feels alive with possibility. I breathe it in like oxygen, the sharp chill waking me up better than any cup of coffee ever could. I tell myself every day that this—the drills, the bruises, the exhaustion—is worth it. I have to believe it, because hockey isn’t just a game to me. It’s the one thing that makes sense, the one thing I’m good at, and the one place where I feel like I belong.

Growing up, my family always told me that hockey was a boy’s sport. That only made me push harder. By the time I was ten, I was skating circles around the boys in my neighborhood. By sixteen, I was getting scouted by junior leagues. Now, at eighteen, I’m the youngest assistant coach in the Mavericks’ history. I’ve worked harder than anyone to get here, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone take it away from me.

That’s why Caleb Miller drives me absolutely insane.

From the moment he joined the Mavericks last year, Caleb has been a thorn in my side. He’s arrogant, cocky, and—to make matters worse—annoyingly good at hockey. It’s like he was born with skates on his feet and a stick in his hand. Everyone loves him, from the fans to the team to the media. They call him “Captain Cool” because he never loses his temper, never breaks under pressure. But all I see is a guy who coasts on natural talent while the rest of us are breaking our backs to keep up.

I’m not saying Caleb doesn’t work hard. I’m saying he doesn’t have to. And that makes me hate him just a little bit.

Okay, maybe more than a little.

It doesn’t help that we’re constantly being compared. Caleb’s the team’s star player, and I’m the assistant coach who’s supposed to help him shine. But every time I suggest a play or give him feedback, he brushes me off with that infuriating smirk, like he knows better. It’s like he thinks I’m just some kid who doesn’t belong here. And maybe he’s right. Sometimes I feel like I’m walking on a tightrope, one misstep away from falling. But I’ll never let him see that. Caleb Miller might think he’s God’s gift to hockey, but I’ll prove that I’m just as good as he is—maybe even better.

Today, practice starts like any other. I’m standing at the edge of the rink, clipboard in hand, watching the team run drills. Caleb is, of course, front and center, skating with a speed and precision that makes it hard to look away. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud.

“Hey, Coach,” he calls as he skids to a stop in front of me, spraying ice onto my boots. “You planning to join us on the ice, or are you just going to stand there and look pretty?”

I glare at him, brushing the ice off my boots. “Maybe if you spent less time showing off and more time listening, you’d actually improve your slap shot.”

His grin widens, and I resist the urge to smack it off his face. “My slap shot’s just fine, thanks. But I’d be happy to give you a lesson if you need one.”

“In your dreams, Miller,” I snap, turning away before he can see the flush creeping up my neck. He has this infuriating way of getting under my skin, and the worst part is, I think he knows it.

The rest of practice is a blur of whistles and shouted instructions. I keep my focus on the drills, ignoring Caleb as much as possible. But it’s hard when he’s always in the spotlight, always drawing attention to himself. It’s like he thrives on it.

As practice wraps up, I’m going over the team’s stats in my head when I hear the familiar scrape of skates on ice. I glance up to see Caleb lingering on the rink, practicing his shots long after everyone else has gone. He’s moving with that effortless grace that drives me crazy, but there’s something different about him when he thinks no one is watching. He’s not showing off now; he’s focused, determined. It’s almost...admirable. Almost.

I shake the thought away and head to the locker room. My job isn’t to admire Caleb Miller. It’s to push this team to be better, and if that means pushing him harder than anyone else, so be it.

But the locker room isn’t the sanctuary I was hoping for. Caleb strolls in a few minutes later, his hair damp from the shower. “You’re still here?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place.

“Some of us have work to do,” I say without looking up from my clipboard.

“You know, Zoe, you might be the only person on this team who doesn’t like me,” he says, his tone light but probing.

“You’re not as charming as you think you are,” I reply, finally meeting his gaze.

He chuckles, and the sound grates on my nerves. “Well, I’ll take that as a challenge. See you tomorrow, Coach.”

As he walks away, I let out a frustrated sigh. Caleb Miller might be my rival, but deep down, I know he’s also my biggest challenge. And I’m not one to back down from a challenge.

Not now. Not ever.

The days start to blur together as the season kicks into high gear. Early mornings turn into late nights, and every moment in between is consumed by hockey. Practices, game strategies, team meetings—it’s relentless, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Caleb, of course, continues to be a constant source of irritation. He’s good, and he knows it, which makes my job infinitely harder. Every suggestion I make seems to be met with that infuriating smirk, as if he’s daring me to prove him wrong. And every time he outskates or outplays the rest of the team, it only fuels my frustration. Why does he have to be so damn perfect all the time?

But then there are moments that catch me off guard. Moments when I see him staying late after practice, working on his shots until his arms are shaking from exhaustion. Moments when he’s the first to step in and help a teammate who’s struggling. Moments when he flashes a genuine smile instead of his usual cocky grin, and I’m reminded that maybe—just maybe—there’s more to Caleb Miller than I want to admit.

One evening, as I’m reviewing game footage in the empty locker room, Caleb walks in. “Still burning the midnight oil?” he asks, dropping into the seat across from me.

“What do you want, Miller?” I ask, not bothering to hide my annoyance.

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “Just curious what it is that keeps you up at night.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “If you must know, I’m trying to figure out how to fix the mess you made during the last game.”

His smirk falters for a split second, and I feel a small surge of satisfaction. But then he leans forward, his expression serious. “You know, you don’t have to do it all on your own.”

I blink, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re not alone, Zoe,” he says, his gaze steady. “We’re a team. And whether you like it or not, that includes me.”

For a moment, I don’t know what to say. The Caleb Miller I’m used to is cocky and insufferable, not...whatever this is. Vulnerable, maybe? No, that’s not the right word. But there’s something in his eyes that makes me wonder if I’ve been wrong about him all along.

I shake the thought away and stand up, grabbing my clipboard. “Thanks for the pep talk, Captain Cool. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

As I walk away, I can feel his eyes on me, and for the first time, I’m not sure if I’m entirely immune to Caleb Miller’s charm.