Offside Hearts

Jace Monroe liked three things in life: winning, clean ice, and never being told what to do.

So naturally, his entire morning got ruined the moment he walked into the rink.

The usual hum of the locker room was quieter than usual. The sound of skates scraping on the concrete, helmets being clicked into place, the rustle of gloves and jerseys — all of it felt distant today. Maybe it was the cold, the bitter chill outside seeping in through the cracks of the rink, or maybe it was something else.

“Team, this is Noah Park,” Coach’s voice cut through the haze, drawing Jace’s attention. Coach didn’t look up from the clipboard he was scribbling on. “He’ll be assisting us this season with strategy and analytics.”

Noah Park. Jace blinked.

As in, the coach’s son. As in, the one who left for Europe four years ago, turned his back on the game, and ghosted the hockey world like it meant nothing. He’d been a fixture in the rink when Jace was younger, always hanging around, never quite on the ice, always observing. And now, here he was again, standing in front of the team.

Noah wore sleek black joggers, a fitted windbreaker, and had earbuds still dangling from his neck like he didn’t care about first impressions. His hair was perfectly tousled, styled without even trying. He looked like the kind of guy who made the world bend to his will, just by standing still. It irritated Jace.

Noah’s eyes scanned the room briefly, settling on each of the players in turn before finally landing—too briefly—on Jace. He didn’t flinch, didn’t give anything away. But Jace could feel the weight of that look, cold and sharp, like a measuring stick he couldn’t outrun.

“Hi,” Noah said, his voice casual, almost indifferent.

Jace’s jaw set, his hand gripping his stick just a little tighter. He stared back, unwilling to break the silence. This was the same Noah who used to sit in the bleachers, sketching in notebooks during practice, never talking, never getting involved. He was the kind of kid who didn’t belong in a rink full of athletes. Now, he wasn’t just a bystander. He was here to observe, to judge, to make decisions.

And that pissed Jace off.

Coach kept talking, but Jace wasn’t listening. He didn’t like complications. And Noah Park was exactly that.

The first practice was a disaster, but not in the way Jace expected.

He thought it’d be another usual practice — drills, shots, team coordination. But every few minutes, Jace noticed Noah standing by the boards, his eyes locked on the players, his fingers typing something into his tablet, an expression of deep concentration on his face. Every time Coach called for a drill change, Noah would lean in and whisper something in his ear. Each time, Coach would nod and adjust the play.

Jace hated it.

He was used to the way the team worked. Everyone knew their role. Coach called the shots, and the team followed. Now, it felt like Noah was pulling the strings from the sidelines, making decisions without breaking a sweat, and Coach was letting him.

Jace couldn’t shake the feeling that Noah was running the show from the shadows, and it didn’t sit well with him.

During a break, Jace couldn’t resist. He skated too close to the boards, deliberately knocking snow and ice up at Noah’s feet. The motion was calculated, a bit of aggression to see if he could get a rise out of him.

“Don’t suppose you can skate better than you coach?” Jace called out, his voice teasing but edged with something more.

Noah didn’t even flinch. He blinked, as if considering the question. Then, without missing a beat, he responded coolly, “Depends. Can you think better than you flirt?”

Jace’s smirk froze, his heart skipping a beat. That wasn’t the reaction he expected. He was used to throwing people off balance, not having it thrown back at him.

He skated off, trying to shake the feeling that Noah had just turned the tables on him without even trying.

The rest of practice felt like a blur. Every time Jace looked up, he saw Noah, standing with his arms crossed, eyes scanning the ice, as if he had all the answers. Jace could feel the weight of his gaze, like Noah was peeling back every layer of his game, reading him like an open book. It made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to feeling like he was being analyzed.

By the time practice ended, Jace was wound tight, his muscles aching from the intensity. He threw his gloves into his bag with unnecessary force, the sound echoing through the empty locker room.

“He’s just doing his job,” Elijah’s voice broke the silence. Jace glanced over to see his teammate sitting on the next bench, lacing up his skates.

“Yeah? Then why’s he watching me the whole time?” Jace muttered, not looking up.

Elijah raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, slowly, he replied, “Because you keep watching him.”

That shut Jace up.

The rink had emptied by the time Jace finally made his way out onto the ice again, his skates carving smooth, slow lines across the surface. The team was gone, the locker room was silent, and the only sound left was the hum of the overhead lights and the scrape of his blades on the cold, hard ice. He liked the quiet. It gave him room to think, room to breathe.

But then he heard it. The soft echo of footsteps on the bleachers.

Noah.

Jace didn’t stop skating, but he did glance over his shoulder. Noah was descending the stairs slowly, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. His eyes were fixed on Jace, that unreadable look on his face. Jace’s heart skipped a beat. For a moment, he wondered if Noah was here to say something — to challenge him, maybe. He couldn’t quite figure out why the guy was still lingering around.

“You always hang back?” Noah asked casually, his voice carrying easily across the rink.

“Sometimes,” Jace replied, his tone guarded.

Noah didn’t answer at first. Instead, he moved to the side, his eyes scanning the empty rink before meeting Jace’s again. “Coach wanted me to review your plays. I said no.”

Jace skated closer, his brow furrowing. “Why?”

Noah smiled faintly, almost to himself. “Because I already did. In my head.”

Jace didn’t know whether to be pissed or impressed. “And?”

“You’re good,” Noah said, voice calm, almost detached. “Just not when you’re trying to impress people.”

Jace stopped skating, the realization settling in his chest like ice. “And you? Trying to impress anyone?”

Noah’s smile widened, though there was something in his eyes that made Jace uneasy. “Not anymore.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rink was quiet, save for the sound of Jace’s breathing. His pulse was racing, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

Noah’s gaze lingered, his lips slightly parted, but still, there was nothing Jace could say. The tension between them wasn’t something he was used to. He wasn’t used to feeling... small, to feeling like someone had his number.

Noah turned and started walking toward the exit, his steps slow and measured, leaving Jace alone on the ice.

But Jace didn’t skate off immediately. Instead, he stood there, staring at the spot where Noah had just been, trying to process the interaction. The lingering feeling of being read and assessed sat heavily in his chest, gnawing at him. What had just happened?

And why did it feel like something was only just beginning?