★A series of one-shots, each inspired by a different song. They don’t connect — just snapshots of characters, moments, and feelings that came from hitting play. Think of it like a mixtape of stories I needed to write.
In Hawkins something shifts beneath the surface; strange lights in the woods. Whispers of monsters. A missing boy no one can find. When you're pulled into helping a group of determined kids, secrets unravel, danger creeps closer, and somewhere between fear and friendship… something shifts between you and Steve.
✦ dusty's plan ♡ | 1.3k+ words | oneshot
Dustin plans a movie night with you and Steve, although he bails which leaves you and Steve in close proximity.
✦ what is this feeling? ♡ ϟ | 1.3k+ words | oneshot
You always hated Steve Harrington, although you don't actually know if hate is the actual feeling you're feeling.
✦ robin's comment ♡ ☁︎ ♒︎ | 4.6k+ words | oneshot
Despite the chaos of the upside down, you and Steve develop a romantic relationship although, you're struggling to find intimate time together. (smut: 18+ mdni)
DC
clark kent / superman
✦ pancakes and promises ♡ | 3k words | oneshot
You’re a sweet, well-loved reporter at the Daily Planet when a quiet colleague lingers at your desk a little too often… and one simple question after work might change everything.
✦ short skirt / long jacket ♡ ▲ | 800+ words | oneshot
You start to realise there is more to the quiet reporter than his glasses and his charm.
Marvel
johnny storm
✦ can you control it? ♒︎ | 1k words | oneshots
You wonder if Johnny is able to control the heat of one part of his body... and he shows you he can. (smut: 18+ mdni)
✦ breaking news ϟ | 7.9k+ words | oneshot
Years after a secret relationship with Johnny Storm ended in silence, a dangerous live report brings you face-to-face again. Sparks fly, old wounds open, and neither of you can ignore what’s been left unsaid.
✦ oh how cliche ϟ ♡ | 800+ words | oneshot
A cosmic storm gave Johnny Storm the power to ignite and you the ability to freeze the world around you. Fire and ice aren't supposed to mix... but maybe together, you can make something beautiful.
Twisters
scott miller
✦ twister history ϟ | 2.1k words | two-part series
After being ghosted in college over a one-night stand; the ghost, Scott, reappears ready to turn your world upside down once again.
part one
part two
Now You See Me
jack wilder
✦ the magic of love ♡ | 1.4k+ words | oneshot
A decade after the Horsemen fell apart, the world of magic drags you back in. This time, though, you and Jack are hiding a secret.
✦ a new trick ♡ | 1.2k+ words | oneshot
While hiding out from the authorities, you learn a new card trick from Jack Wilder, and the thrill of magic leads to a kiss that changes everything between you.
The Summer I Turned Pretty (TSITP)
conrad fisher
✦ you are in love ♡ | 500+ words | oneshot
It was always him. You just didn’t realise it until a quiet night on the Cousins beach house porch — knees brushing, tea shared, words you never thought he’d say. A soft, slow burn about the moment friendship quietly becomes something more.
ukyt
george clarke
✦ secrets in doncaster ♡ | six-part series
A soccer Saturday in Doncaster is spent laughing and drinking with friends... and the occasional minion. However, can a secret go viral?
✦ bittersweet memoires ♡ ϟ | six-part series
There was something sweet - until it all fell apart. Years later, a viral video stirs up a past neither of them ever quite let go of. In the city where they both changed, something is quietly rising again.
✦ between the lines ♡ ϟ 𖦹 ♒︎ | five-part series
It started with rivalry and ended in silence. Now, one season, one team, and one stubborn spark might bring the two hockey players back to where it all went wrong—between the lines.
✦ yours, last night ♒︎ | 2.9k+ words | oneshot
George is your knight in shinning armour and you have a special way of repaying him (smut: 18+ mdni)
✦ on his lap ♒︎ | 700+ words | oneshot
A heated make out session seated on george's laps leads to more. (smut: 18+ mdni)
✦ easter baskets ♡ | 700+ words | oneshot
Y/N accidentally stumbles across the Easter egg aisle; planning a little surprise for George.
✦ heartrates ♡ | 900+ words | oneshot
Y/N invites friends to film a lie detector video - what starts as a fun collab quickly turns into an unexpected confession session.
✦ the very first night ☁︎ | 900+ words | oneshot
You and George dated in secret for a year before a quiet split. Now, back in the same city, one song at a party is all it takes for everything to come crashing down.
✦ the gang tried to set us up ♡ ▲ | 1.2k+ words | oneshot
Everyone in the group knows Y/N and George like each other – except them. From cozy nights to “totally random camping trips”, their friends try everything to get them together.
✦ the first night ♡ | 1.7k words | oneshot
It started with a drink, a smile, and a quiet kind of pull. She didn't know who he was - only that something about him felt like home.
harry lewis
✦ six matches. one love ♡ | 1.5k words | oneshot
From sideline banter to stadium-wide declarations of love, follow Harry Lewis and Y/N through every iconic Sidemen Charity Match as their friendship slowly evolves into something unforgettable.
will lenney
✦ the slip-up ♡ | 700+ words | oneshot
An accidentally slip-up during a video with hot chocolates.
✦ i don't like coffee ♡ | 700+ words | oneshot
On your lunch break in a Sainsbury's, you meet a charming boy who loves coffee.
Hart of Dixie
wade kinsella
✦ august ♡ | 1k+ words | oneshot
Childhood best friends in Bluebell, Wade and Y/N have always been almost something more. As August lingers, late-night bar closings and lakeside talks turn into a summer they’ll never want to let slip away.
summary: It started with rivalry and ended in silence. Now, one season, one team, and one stubborn spark might bring the two hockey players back to where it all went wrong—between the lines.
warnings: mild language, rough play (sporting), tension, sexual references, homesickness, suggestive/smut content
minors do not interact - 18+ (mdni)
word count: 2.3k words
series | main masterlist | part two | part four
Part Three: Yellow Card
The bathroom door shuts behind us, the party’s noise rushing back in. The bass rattles the walls, laughter echoing down the corridor. I clutch my damp top against my chest, lips still tingling, heart hammering like I’ve just sprinted the length of the pitch.
George doesn’t touch me again. Doesn’t even look at me. He just keeps a hand braced on the doorframe like it’s the only thing holding him in place.
I slip past him without a word.
Back in the crush of bodies, the lights feel too bright, the music too loud. Angie’s waving from across the kitchen, Mia and Skye grinning at something on someone’s phone. I force myself to smile, to slot back in, to pretend my hands don’t still shake.
“Where’d you disappear to?” Angie asks, eyebrows arched.
“Bathroom,” I mutter, tugging my damp top into my tote bag. “Some idiot spilled beer on me.”
She nods sympathetically, too distracted by Skye’s story to press further. Relief washes through me, but it’s shallow. Because every time I let my guard drop, I feel his gaze burning from across the room. Not smirking. Not smug. Just watching.
My stomach knots. Whether from the beer, the heat, or everything else, I don’t know.
“Think I’m gonna head back,” I tell Mia after a while, pressing a hand to my side. “Bit of a stomach ache.”
“You okay?” she asks, concern flashing in her eyes.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just tired.”
The walk back to college is quieter than I expected. Streetlamps buzz, shadows stretch across the pavement, and the faint thud of music fades with each step. I hug my jacket closer, mind running laps faster than my legs ever could.
George. His mouth on mine. The way his hands had held me like he’d forgotten, just for a second, that he shouldn’t.
And then his voice, low and ragged: I can’t. I’m your coach.
The words sting, but they’re true. No matter how much my body still hums with the memory, I know he was right. He’s the coach. I’m the scholarship kid. It can’t happen.
Even if he’s only a year older. Even if it already feels like something I can’t stop wanting.
When I finally reach my dorm, the window glows faintly with Mia’s fairy lights, laughter still carrying from the party down the street. I climb into bed without changing, staring at the ceiling until the fan’s lazy spin blurs into nothing.
Sleep doesn’t come easy. Not with the memory of him pressed against me, and the knowledge that wanting him might already be my biggest mistake.
The days blur in a rhythm of lectures, dining hall breakfasts, and late-afternoon trainings.
George doesn’t say a word to me beyond what he says to everyone else. No lingering looks, no sharp comments, no quiet acknowledgements. Just: “Tighter on defence.” “Good pass, Skye.” “Reset.”
If the bathroom ever happened, he’s erased it perfectly.
And maybe that’s what I should do too.
Each time I catch myself glancing toward him on the sideline, I force my focus back to the ball, to the drills, to the way Angie’s calling plays like she was born to. When Mia jokes about the party, I laugh along, never mentioning why I left early. When Skye nudges me about “coach’s favourite,” I roll my eyes and change the subject.
It’s easier this way. To pretend.
The walk to the stadium feels heavier when I’m on my own.
The closer I get, the louder it is—voices echoing from the stands, chants starting already even though the match is still an hour away. Banners ripple against the fence line, students crowding the entrance in bursts of colour.
I tighten my grip on my stick bag and duck my head, weaving through.
That’s when a voice cuts in.
“Well, hello, gorgeous.”
I glance up. A guy in rival colours leans casually against the gate, stick bag slung over his shoulder, smirk curling across his face. He looks me over once, slowly, like I’m part of the scenery.
“You here to watch?” he asks, stepping closer. “Or… maybe something else?” His tone is syrupy, laced with something darker. “Bet you’d look good celebrating with the winning team after. Could even show you a few tricks off the pitch.”
My stomach knots. My grip on the strap tightens.
Before I can fire back, a shadow looms.
“Fuck off.”
George’s voice is sharp, cold. He steps in beside me, broad shoulders blocking the space between us.
The smirk slips from the guy’s face. “Easy, mate—just having a laugh.”
George’s glare doesn’t soften. “You try that again, and we’ll settle it on the pitch. Men’s game later—you’ll get your chance.” His voice drops even lower, dangerous. “Until then? Leave her alone.”
The rival mutters something under his breath but backs away, disappearing into the stream of students.
I exhale shakily, turning to George. “Thanks. Really.”
He doesn’t move right away, his eyes still scanning the path until the guy is out of sight. Then he shifts his gaze to me. “Can I talk to you? Quick.”
I nod, heart thudding.
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, jaw tight. “About the other night. The kiss.” His eyes flick to mine, steady. “That was… heat of the moment. I shouldn’t have done it.”
My chest dips, but before I can speak, he adds, “I don’t want things to be weird. I’ve decided to step down as interim coach. The uni wants me focused on playing, and honestly, it’s for the best. I’d rather…” He pauses, searching. “…I’d rather we try to be friends. If you’re good with that.”
For a moment, the weight of his words lingers in the morning air. Then I smile, soft but certain. “I’d like that. Friends sounds good.”
The relief that flashes across his face is unguarded, real. A grin spreads—wide, boyish, brighter than anything I’ve seen from him yet.
And for the first time since stepping onto campus, I feel like maybe things are about to get a whole lot more complicated—in the best way.
The locker room smells of Deep Heat and nerves. Boots slam against concrete, sticks clatter against benches, voices rise and fall in quick bursts.
“Alright, girls!” Angie claps her hands. “Huddle up.”
We squeeze into a circle, shoulders pressed, arms locked. Angie’s voice carries over the thrum of the crowd outside. “We’ve trained hard. We know our shape. We play our game, and we back each other, yeah?”
“Yeah!” the circle roars back, voices echoing.
“Wolves on three,” Skye adds, grin fierce. “One, two, three—”
“WOLVES!”
We break, jogging onto the turf. The noise from the stands hits like a wave, but as soon as the whistle shrieks, it all fades.
It’s just me, the ball, and the game.
From the first tackle, I feel it—the rhythm, the flow. Every intercept clean, every pass sharp, every challenge won. The ball comes at me again and again, and every time I shut it down. Unstoppable.
By the time the half-time whistle blows, sweat is dripping into my eyes, lungs burning—but the scoreboard still reads 0–0.
As we gather near the bench, my gaze catches on the crowd. He’s there—the rival player from this morning, slouched with his mates in the stands.
“Not bad for a scholarship kid,” he calls, smirk sharp enough to cut.
My chest tightens with fury.
George is leaning against the dugout, water bottle in hand. His eyes track mine, then flick to the stands. He sees.
“Use it,” he says quietly as I step past him. “Turn it into something.”
I breathe hard, fists clenched. “Then put me up front. One run. I can break them.”
He studies me for a beat, jaw tight. Then he nods once. “Fine. Striker.”
When the whistle blows again, I slot in up top, nerves buzzing electric. The ball snaps loose from midfield, rolling perfectly into my path.
I don’t think—I just run.
The defenders scramble, but they can’t touch me. My stick is low, my pace sharp, the goal widening with every stride. One clean push, one strike—
The ball slams into the backboard.
The crowd erupts. My teammates’ shouts crash over me, but all I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears, the thrill burning through my chest.
First game. First goal.
And I’m just getting started.
The sound of the crowd is still ringing in my ears as we reset. Angie claps me on the back, Skye squeezes my arm, everyone buzzing with fresh energy.
“Let’s go, girls!” Angie shouts.
The rival team pushes harder after the restart. Their strikers dart fast, their midfielders press high, but the adrenaline in my veins sharpens everything. Even when I drop back into defence, my stick finds the ball like it’s drawn to me. Block after block, intercept after intercept.
Every tackle I make lifts the team louder. “That’s it!” Skye yells, sprinting alongside me. “Keep them out!”
The scoreboard ticks down—ten minutes left, still 1–0. The rivals get a short corner, tension cutting the air. Our keeper crouches low, gloves ready. The injection comes fast, their striker winds up, but I’m already moving. Stick flat, I deflect it wide, clearing the danger.
The cheer that follows roars like thunder.
By the last five minutes, legs burn, lungs ache, but no one lets up. Angie turns a perfect ball through to our forwards, who hammer home a second goal. 2–0. The noise from the stands is deafening.
The rivals throw everything at us in the dying minutes. Bodies crash, sticks clash, sweat stings my eyes. But we hold. Every block feels like a victory, every clearance like a final nail in their coffin.
The whistle shrieks. Full-time.
2–0. We’ve done it.
The team explodes—sticks in the air, hugs all around, laughter spilling into the night. Angie tackles me in a hug so fierce I almost drop my stick. “You bloody star! First game and a goal?!”
I can’t stop grinning, chest heaving with pride and exhaustion.
The locker room is a storm of celebration—music from someone’s speaker, shin pads clattering into bags, voices high and wild. By the time we’re changed into hoodies and jeans, our faces still flushed, the adrenaline hasn’t even begun to wear off.
When we step back out, the boys’ squad is warming up. The floodlights cut the pitch in bright slices of green, the stands buzzing even louder now.
My eyes find George immediately. He’s in the men’s kit—navy and white, captain’s armband tight around his bicep. The uniform clings to him in a way that makes my throat dry.
“You look good in it,” I hear myself say before I can stop.
He glances over, a quick grin breaking through, sharp but real. “Don’t let the others hear you—might go to my head.”
Before I can reply, familiar voices crash in.
“Oi! There she is!” Curly Hair—Dan—claps me on the back so hard I nearly stumble. “First game and a goal? Unreal!”
Broad Shoulders—Tom—grins, holding up his fist for me to bump. “Knew you’d do damage.”
And Glasses—Ethan—gives me a warm smile. “Congrats. Not every rookie starts like that.”
Their easy praise makes my cheeks burn hotter than the lights. I mumble a thank you, but George’s eyes linger on me a beat longer, quiet pride in the way he doesn’t say anything at all.
Then the whistle blows for the men’s game, and he jogs out with his team, armband catching in the light.
The locker room is a storm of celebration—music from someone’s speaker, shin pads clattering into bags, voices high and wild. By the time we’re changed into hoodies and jeans, our faces still flushed, the adrenaline hasn’t even begun to wear off.
When we step back out, the boys’ squad is already warming up. The floodlights slice the turf in sharp green, the stands buzzing even louder now.
My eyes find George immediately. He’s in the men’s kit—navy and white, captain’s armband tight around his arm. The uniform suits him so well it makes my chest tighten.
“You look good in it,” I hear myself say, too quickly.
He glances over, that quick grin tugging at his mouth. “Don’t let the others hear you—might go to my head.”
Before I can respond, familiar voices barrel in.
“Oi! There she is!” Dan, all curls and energy, claps me on the back so hard I nearly stumble. “First game and a goal? Unreal!”
Tom grins wide, holding up a fist for me to bump. “Knew you’d do damage.”
Ethan just gives me a warm smile. “Congrats. Not every rookie makes a debut like that.”
Their easy praise makes my cheeks burn hotter than the lights. I mumble a thank you, but George’s eyes linger a beat longer before he jogs out to join his team.
From the first whistle, the men’s game is brutal—fast, physical, the ball moving like lightning across the pitch. Every clash of sticks makes the crowd roar.
And it doesn’t take long before George and the rival player from this morning find each other. Every time they square off, there’s something extra in it—shoulders brushing, words exchanged too low for the officials.
“You’ll never keep her safe,” the rival sneers at one stoppage, just loud enough that I catch it from the stands. “Scholarship girl won’t last a season.”
George’s jaw locks, his grip tightens on his stick, but he doesn’t bite—yet.
The next play, the rival barrels in too hard, shoulder catching George square in the chest after the ball’s already gone. George stumbles back but stays upright. The whistle shrieks immediately.
Yellow card.
The rival throws his arms up in protest, but the umpire is unmoved, sending him to the sideline. The crowd erupts—half cheering, half jeering—as George straightens, eyes blazing.
For a second, he looks toward the stands. His gaze catches mine, and I can see it in his face—he wanted to retaliate, but didn’t need to. The card says it all.
The game surges on, George leading his team with sharper edges than before. But the weight of that moment hangs heavy, vibrating through the stadium, a warning shot that the rivalry is only just beginning.
summary: It started with rivalry and ended in silence. Now, one season, one team, and one stubborn spark might bring the two hockey players back to where it all went wrong—between the lines.
warnings: mild language, rough play (sporting), tension, sexual references, homesickness, suggestive/smut content
minors do not interact - 18+ (mdni)
word count: 4.9k words
series | main masterlist | part two
Part One: First Whistle
The city hits me all at once—heat rising off the pavement, car horns in the distance, too many people moving in every direction like they already know where they’re going. I step off the bus with my stick bag slung across one shoulder, a suitcase in one hand and my duffel cutting into the other.
Everything smells like sunscreen, cut grass, and cement.
Very different from home.
Back in my hometown, you could walk across campus in four minutes. Cows grazed just past the carpark, and people still waved to each other from across the quad. Now I’m here—second year, brand new everything, a full hockey scholarship to one of the biggest unis in the state.
I couldn’t say no. Not to this.
Still, it doesn’t stop the knot in my stomach from tightening as I scan the res college building towering ahead. I haul my stuff up the stairs to Level 2 and find Room 213. A sticky note with my name is half-peeling off the door.
Inside, it's small but bright.
Two desks. Two beds. A window that opens onto the tennis courts.
One side is already unpacked - framed photos stuck above the headboard, a small stack of textbooks on the shelf, and a lavender diffuser humming quietly on the nightstand.
“You must be my roommate!” A voice says from behind me.
I turn to see a girl with a messy bun and half-eaten toast in hand. She’s grinning, already in an oversized university hoodie.
“I’m Mia—your roommate. Second year just like you! Psych student. Welcome to the jungle.”
She reaches over to grab my duffel before I can protest and throws it on the bed.
“I claimed that side,” she adds, pointing to the one under the window. “Hope that’s cool.”
“Totally,” I manage, still catching my breath. “Thanks.”
She gestures to the kettle. “I’m making coffee. You want?”
“Maybe later.” My hands are already pulling out my hockey kit, checking for my mouthguard like it’s a comfort item.
Mia doesn’t press. Just shrugs. “Big day?”
“Preseason training. First one.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re one of the hockey kids! Damn, good luck. They’re intense. Like, cult-level intense.”
I smile, but my stomach flips.
After she leaves to hunt down butter or something equally chaotic, I sit down on the bed and pull out my phone. I tap the contact before I can overthink it.
“Hi, bub!” Mum answers immediately. “Did you get there okay?”
“Yeah,” I exhale, lying back on the mattress. “Room’s decent. Roommate’s chatty.”
“Good. You sound a bit… tight.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just… it’s big here. Busy. Loud.”
There’s a pause, then her warm voice filters through again. “You’ve got this, sweetheart. You earned this spot. They’re lucky to have you.”
I nod, even though she can’t see it. “I know.”
“Call me after training?”
“Will do.”
I hang up and stare at the ceiling for a moment. The fan spins lazily above. I wonder if any of the other girls on the team feel this nervous.
I sit up, tie my laces, and pull my hair into a tight ponytail. Jersey on. Shin pads. Water bottle. Game face.
Time to find the pitch.
I check my phone; it reads 5:00pm and training starts at 5:30pm sharp - plenty of time.
Only problem though is I don't know where I am going.
I weave through a cluster of arts kids lounging on the grass, dodging their sketchbooks and oat milk lattes, and keep walking. The sun is high, and my nerves are higher.
Just don't trip over yourself, I tell my self. Or sweat through your shirt before you even get there. That’d be ideal.
At the end of the footpath, I spot him.
A guy—tall, lean, carrying a stick bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. Backlit by the sun like it’s some kind of slow-motion sports montage. Long legs, broad shoulders, and that annoying kind of confidence that tells you he’s been good at everything since birth.
He looks like someone who’s already won the game before it starts.
I pick up my pace, dragging my bag behind me. “Hey—sorry! Do you know which way the hockey pitch is?”
He glances over once. Just once. And something about the way his eyes meet mine knocks the breath right out of my chest. Blue—icy, sharp, like they’re trained to assess and dismiss all at once.
He keeps walking.
Seriously?
“Just trying to find the field,” I add, louder now.
This time, he speaks—but doesn’t stop.
“Should be on the app.”
His voice is low, flat. Not even rude - just completely disinterested.
I pause mid-step as he strides ahead, calm and unbothered. He’s got that golden boy look. The kind that plays striker, dates netball captains, and never has to introduce himself because everyone already knows who he is.
My jaw tightens.
Right. So that's the vibe.
City hockey boys. Got it.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and follow at a distance.
Fine. I didn’t come here to make friends. I came here to earn my spot.
But as I watch him disappear around the corner, something prickles at the base of my neck.
Not hate. Not really.
More like.. curiosity. Mixed with the tiniest flicker of adrenaline.
Game on, I guess.
Despite the man fueling an anger in me, I swallowed it down and forced myself to take his advice. With a swipe of a finger, the campus map app downloaded onto my phone. At least now I wouldn't look completely lost.
The path curved toward a massive brick building looming the evening light. It was 5:20pm. A pair of girls walked just ahead of me, their laughter spilling into the air. I bit my lip, weighing whether it would be smarter to introduce myself now or wait until training actually began.
"Hey - you new?"
The voice behind me made me spin. My eyes landed on a girl wit striking green eyes. She had a stick bag slung over her back, and in her hands she carried a scuffed pair of Salomon shoes.
"Yeah. Can you tell?" I stammered, heat rushing to my cheeks.
Her mouth curved into a quick grin. “Just a bit. Don’t worry, I’ll show you where to go. First week is always chaos.”
Falling into step beside me, she nodded toward the building ahead. “That’s the sports complex—training’s in the far hall. Upstairs is mostly gyms and courts, but you’ll get the hang of it. Everyone does eventually.”
Her pace was brisk but easy, her voice carrying enough warmth to ease the knot in my chest. She pushed through the heavy double doors, holding one open for me. The smell of varnished wood and sweat clung to the corridor.
“Change rooms are down here.” She gestured, leading me along a hallway lined with faded trophy cabinets and posters of past teams. “Girls on the left. Most of the squad should be there already.”
I nodded, clutching my stick bag a little tighter, nerves prickling. But with her walking beside me, the building didn’t feel quite so overwhelming.
She pushes her shoulder against the bright red door, as the loud thundering laughter emerges. I slowly walk into the room, seeing girls sat on benches as their bags hung behind them; some girls sliding their shin guards into their socks, and the others helping each other to place sports tape on their legs.
Angie - as I learnt her name on the tour, walked towards two spare places on the bench, ushering me over with her hands.
The chatter began to ease out as I walked across the room, the team of girls turning to look at me. I give the girls a tight smile and a small, "hi."
For a moment, silence - then the tension cracked.
"Hi!" One the girls beamed back, her voice light and inviting. "You're new, right?"
I exhaled a breath I didn't realise I was holding and dropped my bag by the bench. Angie sat down beside me, nudging my arm with an encouraging grin.
“So, where are you from?” another girl asked, tugging her long braid into a bun.
“Just moved here for uni,” I said, glancing around at their curious faces. “Still figuring everything out.”
“Well, you’ve found the right team,” one joked. “We’re practically a family—minus the occasional sibling argument.” A ripple of laughter followed.
As I began unzipping my bag and pulling out my runners, the conversations picked up again, louder this time, easier.
“Can you believe we’re still without a proper coach?” one girl muttered, wrapping white tape around her ankle.
“Seriously,” another chimed in. “They sacked the old guy last term and just… left us hanging.”
I glanced between them, eyebrows raised, as I pulled off my jacket.
“Yeah, and the uni didn’t find anyone in time,” Angie explained, tightening her laces. “So now one of the guys from the men’s squad has stepped in. Interim coach, apparently.”
“Interim coach,” a girl across the room echoed, using air quotes that earned a round of laughter.
“They say he actually knows his stuff,” another added, “but it’s… different. Having one of them in charge.”
The girls exchanged smirks and knowing looks as I bent down to slide my shin guards into place. Their easy banter filled the room, a current I was slowly being pulled into. For the first time that day, the knot of nerves in my stomach began to loosen.
he team chatter carried us out through the back doors of the sports complex, spilling into the fading light. The pitch stretched wide in front of us, the turf glowing green under the floodlights as the sun sank lower behind the stands.
I slung my stick bag over my shoulder, my nerves returning in a dull thrum. As we reached the sideline, the girls pulled out their gear, leaning sticks against the benches while they peeled off jackets.
That’s when I noticed it. Every single one of them had gleaming, brand-new sticks—freshly wrapped grips, polished heads that hadn’t seen more than a few scrapes. Top-of-the-line, all of them.
I swallowed hard, tugging my own stick free. Mine was solid, reliable… but old. The paint was chipped along the shaft, and the grip had been re-taped twice already. It was the best I could afford, scholarship covering fees but not luxuries. Against their pristine equipment, it stood out like a sore thumb.
I forced myself not to dwell on it, setting my bag down as the girls gathered in a circle on the turf. We began stretching, the chatter drifting into playful banter—weekend plans, uni lectures, exam stress. Their ease settled around me like a blanket I wasn’t sure I was allowed under just yet.
Then a voice cut through the noise.
“Alright, ladies, circle up.”
I froze mid-stretch, the sound too familiar. My head snapped up as a figure stepped out from the tunnel, stick tucked under one arm.
And there he was.
The guy from the quad. The one who’d dismissed me with that smug grin and a barb sharp enough to keep me simmering all afternoon.
Now standing at the centre of the pitch, wearing the men’s kit and every bit the part of our interim coach.
My stomach dropped, heat rushing up my neck. Of course it had to be him.
Before I could even process it, the girls around me lit up.
“Oh my god, it’s George!” someone squealed.
“He’s coaching us?” another whispered, already nudging her friend with a grin.
“I’d heard the rumour, but I didn’t think it was true.”
The circle practically vibrated with excitement, laughter bubbling up as they straightened their spines, stretching a little harder, grinning a little wider.
I stayed silent, forcing myself to keep my expression neutral. My hands tightened around my stick, the chipped tape rough against my palm.
George let his eyes sweep across the group, stopping for the briefest second on me. Something unreadable flickered there before the smirk returned.
“Let’s get started then,” he said, tossing the stick down and clapping his hands. “Warm-up jog, two laps. Go.”
The girls shot each other thrilled looks before breaking into a run, chatter spilling back into the air. I fell into step beside them, keeping my gaze forward, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons.
By halfway through the session, sweat was already beading along my hairline. The drills were sharp, quick rotations of passing patterns, sprints, and ball control. My body itched to move into my rhythm, to show them I wasn’t just some new kid tagging along.
But every time I thought I had the chance, George’s voice cut across the turf.
“Quicker passes, number twelve—don’t hold it so long.” His eyes landed on me, and I felt the weight of them before I flicked the ball on.
“Stay tighter on your mark,” he called again a few minutes later, just as I’d peeled off into space to support the play.
And then, when a ball ricocheted my way, he stepped in immediately: “Keep your stick down. Basics first.”
Basics. The word stung.
Around me, the other girls laughed and jostled, calling out encouragements, glowing under his praise when he clapped and shouted “Nice one!” or “Perfect angle!” Not once had that been directed my way.
It wasn’t that he was wrong—there were moments I’d rushed, moments my nerves got the better of me. But he hadn’t seen what I could really do. Not once had I been given the space to direct play, to step into my natural role at centre-half.
Instead, I was biting my tongue, replaying every clipped comment in my head, every moment where I felt him watching me a little longer than the others. Singling me out—not enough to be obvious, but enough that I felt it, sharp and personal.
And still, no chance to show him. To show anyone.
Angie must have noticed the way my jaw tightened every time George's voice cut across the pitch, because when the tackling square drill came up, she quickly volunteered to be my partner.
We cycled through the motions again and again: me as the defender, Angie pushing forward as the striker, stick tapping, shoulders dipping, both of us locked in the rhythm of the drill.
Halfway through another round, she let her stick falter, deliberately overplaying her step. The ball slipped free and rolled toward me.
“Hey—hold the ball for a sec, love,” she murmured under her breath, her tone low enough that George wouldn’t hear.
Angie’s gaze held mine, steady but gentle. “You okay?” she repeated, her stick nudging at the turf as though we were still mid-drill.
I let out a breath I’d been holding since the warm-up. “He’s… just on me constantly,” I muttered, keeping my voice low. “Doesn’t even give me a chance to show what I can do. Feels like he’s already decided I’m the weak link.”
Angie’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more a knowing grimace. “He’s tough, yeah. But don’t let him get in your head. You’re solid—you just need one opening, and they’ll all see it.”
Her words steadied me, even if only slightly. I nudged the ball back toward her, jaw unclenching for the first time all night.
But then a shadow fell across us.
“You two done catching up?” George’s voice cut in, sharp and carrying enough bite that the girls around us glanced over. He stood just outside the square, arms folded, expression unreadable but his eyes fixed on me.
Heat surged up my neck. Angie straightened immediately, scooping the ball onto her stick like nothing had happened.
“Yep,” she said brightly, forcing a grin. “Ready when you are.”
George’s gaze lingered on me for a beat longer than necessary before he blew his whistle. “Good. Then show me properly this time.”
The drill restarted, my pulse hammering harder than it should have.
The whistle shrieked, and Angie came at me again, stick low, shoulders shifting left then right as she tried to feint past. I gritted my teeth, crouching low, keeping my stick flat against the turf.
Not this time.
She darted right, quick and sharp—but I read it. My stick angled across her line, the ball snapping cleanly onto my control. Before she could adjust, I pivoted, pushing it out wide, my feet moving instinctively into open space.
“Nice!” one of the girls on the sideline shouted, clapping her stick against the turf.
Angie’s grin broke through, wide and genuine. “That’s more like it!” she puffed, jogging back into position.
I felt it too—my body moving the way it should, the rhythm I’d been waiting for all session finally sparking to life. For a flicker of a second, the frustration that had sat heavy in my chest was gone.
From the corner of my eye, I saw George watching. His arms were still folded, but the smirk he usually wore had eased into something else—something tighter, more focused.
“Again,” he called, his voice cutting across the pitch. “Do it again.”
The girls shuffled, buzzing with fresh energy, but my pulse thudded for a different reason. For the first time tonight, I’d made him look twice.
The drill cycled a few more times, each round sharper than the last. My legs burned, but for once the burn felt good—like proof. Proof I belonged here. Angie gave me an approving nod as we swapped places, and even the girls on the sideline had started cheering louder each time one of us won the ball.
Still, George’s whistle ended it before I could properly settle into the rush. “Alright, that’s enough. Reset.”
We regrouped, breathing hard, sticks tapping the turf as we shuffled back to the circle. I could feel his eyes sweep across us, lingering on me for that same split-second pause as before.
Then, with a tilt of his chin, George said, “We’ll finish with something different. Boys’ squad is wrapping up on the far pitch—we’ll pull them over for a short match.”
The reaction was instant.
The girls whooped and clapped, energy buzzing like they’d just been handed a gift. “Yes!” someone squealed. “About time!”
“Love a scrap with the lads,” another laughed, rolling her shoulders.
I gripped my stick tighter, my pulse sparking all over again. This—this was it. A real chance. Not just drills or whispers of potential, but space to actually show what I could do in a game.
And, if fate really wanted to mess with me, it meant playing under his eyes. Properly.
The turf stretched out in front of me, wide and gleaming under the floodlights. My stomach twisted with nerves, but this time they felt almost electric.
Finally, my chance.
When George said we'd be playing against the boys, the thought of that meaning versing our coach barely registered. The girls were buzzing too much, laughter bouncing between us as we shuffled into position.
But as we jogged onto the pitch and the teams split, the realisation hit me like a cold splash of water.
I slotted into centre half-back, sliding my stick into my palm, legs bouncing with nervous energy. And then I looked up.
George was already there, casually planting himself in the opposite spot. Centre striker. The player I’d be tethered to. The one I was meant to shadow, block, and shut down.
My grip tightened around my stick until my knuckles ached. Of all the positions, of all the match-ups… it had to be this.
The whistle blew sharp, and the boys were off fast. Their passes were crisp, quick, confident. But the girls matched them step for step, our shouts cutting across the pitch.
First clash—George received a through ball, charging straight at me. My heart jumped, but my stick was already low, body braced. I forced him wide, nudging the ball just enough that Angie swooped in to steal it. The girls on the sideline cheered, and George’s grin flickered into something tighter.
Second time—he tried again, body feint to the right. I anticipated, slid across, stick flat. He pushed harder, shoulder brushing mine, but I stuck with him. He had to offload the ball backward. Small victory.
Third time—he came fast, eyes narrowed, stick tapping. I nearly bit on his fake, but recovered just in time to hook the ball away. My chest heaved, lungs burning, but a thrill pulsed through me. I could shut him down.
The match stretched, both sides scrapping, tackles flying, laughter and groans echoing under the floodlights. Ten minutes in, one of the boys slammed home a goal from the top of the D. Not long after, Angie cut through with a perfect pass and finish to level it. 1–1.
Sweat plastered my hair against my forehead. My legs trembled but refused to slow. Every time George pushed forward, I was there. Every time I thought I’d slip, I fought back.
And then—final minute.
The ball spilled free from midfield, rolling toward me. My stick trapped it, clean and sharp. A spark surged through me. This was my chance—to prove it, to show him, to show all of them.
I lifted my head, scanning for a pass, when George came barreling in. His stick jabbed, his body heavy against mine. Too heavy.
The hit knocked me sideways, my balance gone before I could recover. I hit the turf hard, breath knocked from my lungs.
“Not a foul!” George barked immediately, scooping the ball as if nothing had happened. “Clean tackle!”
I gasped, scrambling to push myself up, but he was already surging forward. Two strides, a flick of his wrists, and the ball slammed into the backboard.
The whistle blew. Game over.
Cheers erupted from the boys. The girls shouted in protest, a chorus of “That was a foul!” and “She was shoved off it!” echoing behind me.
I stayed kneeling on the turf, chest heaving, anger burning hotter than the sting in my hip. George’s smirk returned as he jogged back, not even glancing at me as he raised a hand to clap one of his teammates.
Not a foul. His words still rang in my head.
But every part of me knew the truth.
I forced myself up from the turf, brushing the grit from my knees as the boys whooped and slapped George on the back. The girls muttered amongst themselves, some throwing me sympathetic looks, others shaking their heads at the ref that wasn’t there to make the call.
I bit down hard on the words that rose in my throat. Not here. Not in front of everyone.
Instead, I slotted my stick back under my arm, clapped a teammate’s shoulder when she offered a quick, “Don’t worry about it—he only won because he cheated,” and followed the group off the pitch.
The floodlights buzzed overhead, too bright, making my temples throb.
In the change room, the laughter returned quickly, the girls stripping off shin pads and swapping stories like the sting of the loss didn’t matter. I smiled when someone caught my eye, nodded when another asked if I’d see them tomorrow. But my chest was tight, my throat aching from holding everything in.
By the time I slipped out of the building, my bag heavy on my shoulder, the night had grown cool. The campus paths stretched out ahead, empty under the streetlamps.
Each step back toward my room thudded with everything I hadn’t said: the unfair shove, the way he’d claimed it clean, the smirk when he scored.
The anger I’d swallowed all session hadn’t disappeared. It had only settled deeper, burning quiet, simmering.
And with every step, one thought kept circling in my head: tomorrow, I’d prove it.
The campus was too still that night. I’d tossed and turned for what felt like hours, homesickness creeping in like a weight I couldn’t shake. Eventually, I gave up.
I pulled on the first things I found—tiny bunny-print shorts and an oversized hoodie I’d stolen from my brother before moving here—and slipped into slides. The dining hall was the only place with lights still on, the faint hum of vending machines cutting through the quiet.
I padded in, tugging my hood up, craving nothing more than tea and distraction.
And then, of course, he was there.
George sat in a corner booth, sprawled back with a Gatorade bottle in front of him. When his eyes lifted and caught mine, that infuriating smirk tugged at his mouth.
I turned immediately, pretending not to notice, making straight for the hot water dispenser.
“Nice outfit,” he called, voice lazy but carrying easily across the near-empty hall.
I froze. Slowly, I turned my head. He was watching me, eyes flicking down to my shorts before settling on the hoodie drowning my frame.
“Bunny shorts,” he added with a small shake of his head. “Strong look.”
I rolled my eyes and busied myself with the mug. “They’re comfortable.”
His gaze lingered on the hoodie a moment too long. “And that sweatshirt…” He tilted his head, brow raised. “Boyfriend’s?”
My stomach clenched. “My brother’s,” I said quickly, sharper than I meant to.
His smirk wavered just slightly, though the playful mask slipped back into place fast. “Right. Figures.” Something in his tone was tighter, though—like he wasn’t as casual as he wanted me to think.
I poured the hot water and carried the mug to the nearest table, hoping that would be the end of it. But a moment later, his footsteps padded closer, and then he slid into the chair opposite me.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, voice softer now.
I shrugged, staring into the swirl of steam above my tea. “Something like that. Just… miss home, I guess.”
He leaned forward on his elbows, his expression more serious than I’d ever seen it. “First year away?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded slowly. “It’s rough at first. Feels like you’re on another planet. But it gets easier.”
I glanced up, surprised by the absence of sarcasm in his voice. For once, there wasn’t a smirk—just green eyes steady on mine.
“Does it?” I asked quietly.
“It did for me,” he said. “You just… find your people. Team helps with that. You’ll see.”
Something in my chest loosened at his words, the knot of homesickness easing just slightly. I didn’t want to admit it, but the warmth in his tone was disarming.
For a moment, the silence between us wasn’t heavy. It was almost… easy.
I wrapped my hands tighter around the mug, letting the steam fog my vision. “Back home it’s… different,” I said finally, the words slipping out before I could second-guess them.
George tilted his head, listening.
“It’s quieter. Everyone knows everyone. Nights don’t feel this—” I searched for the word, gesturing vaguely toward the empty hall and the humming lights. “—empty.”
He leaned back slightly, but his eyes stayed fixed on me. “Country kid, then?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Out there, you can’t walk down the street without running into three people you know. Here… I don’t even think my neighbours know my name.”
For a moment, his smirk didn’t return. He just sat with it, his fingers drumming lightly against the table. “City’s louder, but lonelier,” he said quietly, like he knew the feeling.
I glanced at him, surprised. “Exactly.”
Our eyes held for a beat too long, and I felt the heaviness in my chest shift into something else—something less sharp, less lonely.
I cleared my throat, looking down at my tea again. “Anyway. I’ll get used to it. Just… takes time, I guess.”
His voice softened, almost teasing but not unkind. “Good thing you’ve got a team now. And a coach who’ll keep you busy.”
A laugh slipped out before I could stop it, quiet but real. “Yeah,” I said, lifting my eyes to his. “A coach who was lowkey an ass today.”
His brows shot up, then he leaned back in his chair, mock-offended. “Lowkey? That’s generous.”
I smirked into my tea. “I mean—you didn’t exactly go easy on me. Singling me out every five minutes?”
He ran a hand through his hair, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a grin. “Singling you out? Or pushing you because you can actually handle it?”
That made me pause, mug hovering just below my lips.
He caught the hesitation and smirked again, though softer this time. “Don’t look so shocked. I notice things. You’re better than you think you are - and it helps that I watched a few of your videos from state championships."
Warmth prickled in my chest—half from the tea, half from his words. I set the mug down, forcing myself to shake my head. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”
“Yeah, well,” he said with a shrug, eyes glinting, “you’ll figure out I don’t hand out compliments too easy.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The hum of the vending machines filled the gap, but it didn’t feel awkward anymore.
I pulled my hood up, more out of habit than shyness, the sleeves swallowing my hands. “Guess I should try to sleep.”
George nodded, leaning back in the booth, watching me stand. “Good luck with that. Maybe the bunnies on your shorts will ward off nightmares.”
I rolled my eyes but felt the corner of my mouth twitch despite myself. “Goodnight, Coach.”
“Night,” he said, and for once, there wasn’t a smirk—just something quieter, almost thoughtful, lingering in his eyes.
summary: It started with rivalry and ended in silence. Now, one season, one team, and one stubborn spark might bring the two hockey players back to where it all went wrong—between the lines.
warnings: mild language, rough play (sporting), tension, sexual references, homesickness, suggestive/smut content
minors do not interact - 18+ (mdni)
word count: 3.8k words
series | main masterlist | part one | part three
Part Two: Training Drills
The alarm pierces the quiet at 6:00 a.m.
Mia doesn’t stir. She groans, burrows deeper under her blanket, and mumbles something about the “injustice of mornings.” Lavender still lingers in the room.
I dress quietly—tights, a thin long-sleeve, trainers—and tie my hair up. My hip aches faintly from last night, but the run will loosen it.
Campus is hushed when I step outside, the air sharp and clean. I set off slow, breath fogging, shoes tapping rhythm against pavement. Past the library’s shadow, across the cricket green, around the back of the tennis courts. The city feels smaller at this hour—less like it’s swallowing me whole, more like I can breathe inside it.
By the time the sun starts warming the rooftops, I’m flushed and buzzing. I walk the last stretch back, tugging my sleeves down, promising myself a strong tea as a reward.
The dining hall is already awake, trays clattering, the smell of toast and beans thick in the air. I queue, load up toast and a croissant, and head for an empty table.
“Morning, country.”
I don’t even have to look up.
George is at a long table with three of the men’s squad—curly hair, broad shoulders, and one with glasses perched low on his nose. They’re halfway through bacon rolls, laughing at something on a phone.
I hover, tray in hand, debating whether to keep walking.
George’s eyes flick over me, lingering for a beat on my flushed cheeks and damp ponytail. “Out for a run?”
I nod, sliding onto the bench. “Helps clear my head.”
“Looks like it’s working,” Glasses says warmly. “Sharp performance yesterday, too. That block on George’s feint? Filthy.”
Heat climbs my neck. “Just doing my job.”
Broad Shoulders grins. “Most rookies don’t hold their ground like that. You’ve got bite.”
I duck my head, tearing into the croissant. Compliments feel good—but strange. I’m used to having to earn them, not having them tossed across the table over tea.
George stirs his drink lazily, eyes still on me. “Told you she could handle it.”
My head lifts. “Handle what?”
He shrugs, casual, but his mouth twitches. “Pressure. Pushback. Me.”
My pulse stutters. Was that teasing? A jab? Or—something else? His tone is flat, but the glint in his eyes makes it impossible to tell.
Curly Hair whistles. “Careful, mate, you’ll scare her off.”
George doesn’t look away. “She doesn’t scare easy.”
I can’t tell if it’s a challenge or a compliment. Maybe both. I break eye contact first, buttering my toast with more focus than necessary.
The tension is broken when a voice cuts in behind me. “Oi, you started without us?”
Angie drops into the seat beside me, Skye right after, balancing a tray stacked with toast soldiers and beans.
“This is dangerous,” Skye laughs, nudging my tray. “Girls’ and boys’ squads fraternising? Someone should report us.”
The table erupts into laughter, the spell broken.
I finally exhale, but the buzz in my chest lingers.
Skye and Angie settle in quickly, trays clattering, the whole table bubbling with overlapping chatter. Training jokes, class horror stories, who owes who a pint from the last social.
I relax into it, biting into my toast, when a hand darts across the table and swipes the little packet of butter I’d been saving.
“Oi!” I protest, half laughing, half scandalised.
George is already peeling it open with exaggerated precision, knife in hand. “Team resource-sharing,” he says smoothly, spreading it thick across his own toast.
“You’re a thief,” I mutter, reaching across to snatch it back, but he leans just out of reach, smug grin intact.
Curly Hair bangs the table. “God help you, mate. Stealing a girl’s butter is braver than going into a two-on-one press.”
“Or dumber,” Angie throws in, grinning at me.
George only shrugs, mouth twitching. “She can take me.”
My stomach flips—too quick, too sharp—and I mask it with an eye roll, tearing into my croissant instead.
The conversation drifts into easy rhythm—Skye groaning about her 9 a.m. economics lecture, Glasses bragging about a late-night takeaway run, Broad Shoulders insisting he’d out-sprinted everyone in training (met with loud disagreement).
I laugh along, warmth settling low in my chest. But then I glance at the time on my phone. 8:35.
“I should go,” I say, standing and gathering my tray. “Got a pile of reading waiting before my seminar.”
“Don’t get lost,” George says, casual but deliberate, eyes catching mine just for a second.
“I downloaded the app,” I fire back, keeping my face neutral.
Angie smirks into her mug, and Curly Hair whistles under his breath.
I sling my tote onto my shoulder, offering the group a small smile. “See you all later.”
The noise of the dining hall swallows me as I leave, but the echo of his grin sticks with me longer than I’d like.
By late afternoon, the pitch is alive again under the floodlights. The girls file out from the changing rooms, chatter carrying on the warm breeze, sticks clacking against the turf as we jog the first lap.
I fall into step beside Angie and Skye, their conversation buzzing around me, but my focus sharpens as soon as George blows the whistle.
“Same drills as yesterday,” he calls, voice carrying easily across the field. “But tighter. Cleaner. Let’s go.”
We move through passing patterns, sprint work, and tackling grids. My body feels sharper today—less weighed down by nerves, more settled into rhythm. Each trap and pass flows easier.
George’s voice cuts across the drills, clipped and precise. “Better. Keep that stick low. Good read, Skye. Nice angle, Angie.” His eyes flick to me once, twice, but he doesn’t single me out the way he did yesterday. If anything, he seems to be watching without comment, arms folded, like he’s waiting.
During a scrimmage, I catch an intercept clean at half-back, pivoting quickly to feed Skye through the middle. The ball slices the defence open, and Angie finishes it with a slap into the net. The girls cheer, sticks thumping, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.
When I glance toward the sideline, George is there, unreadable. He doesn’t clap. Doesn’t call my name. Just gives the smallest nod before barking, “Reset. Run it again.”
I don’t know if it’s approval or another test. But the rush in my chest says it doesn’t matter—I’ll take it.
Training winds down with the usual sprint sets, lungs burning and legs heavy. We collapse into a circle on the turf, sticks balanced across our knees, faces flushed red under the floodlights.
George paces slowly in front of us, whistle spinning on his finger. “Alright, listen up.”
The chatter dies instantly.
“First game is next weekend. Selection’s not final—nothing’s ever final—but I’ve put together the starting list and subs for now.” He pulls a folded sheet from his pocket, scanning it like he hasn’t already memorised every name.
“Keeper: Charlotte.” Our goalie fist-pumps the air, and a ripple of applause goes around the group.
“Defence: Skye, Lucy, and Jess.” The three exchange grins, nudging shoulders.
“Midfield: Angie, Tash, and…” He pauses for a beat that makes my pulse hammer, “…you.” His eyes flick to me briefly, then back to the page.
My chest lurches. Me. Named.
“And up front: Liv, Hannah, and Molly. Subs: Rach, Em, and Kate.”
He folds the sheet away, gaze sweeping over us. “That’s the line-up for now. If you’re not listed, don’t sulk—fight for it. Training’s your chance to show me why I should change it.”
A few groans mix with claps and cheers, the circle buzzing. I sit still, trying not to let the grin burst out of me.
George’s eyes catch mine again, just for a second, and there’s something sharper there than the smirk he usually wears. Not approval exactly—more like a challenge.
“Right,” he says, breaking it. “Stretch, shower, and rest up. Next week, it gets real.”
The whistle lands around his neck with a snap, and just like that, we’re dismissed.
But my pulse is still racing. Named midfield. Centre-half. My spot.
And I swear, even if he’ll never admit it, George knows I’ve earned it.
The change rooms are buzzing, steam rising from showers, lockers slamming, and the sharp smell of deodorant mixing with shampoo. I tug off my shin pads, still glowing from hearing my name in the line-up, when Skye plops down beside me, towel wrapped around her waist.
“So…” she drawls, grinning at Angie. “O-Week. Party at Jake’s flat tonight. You in?”
Angie groans. “We shouldn’t. First game’s in a week, and George’ll have us running suicides if we show up hungover.”
“That’s future-us’ problem,” another girl laughs, pulling a hoodie over her head. “Besides, O-Week only happens once. Can’t exactly miss the best house party of the year.”
There’s a chorus of agreement, a few hesitant shrugs, then Angie sighs in defeat. “Fine. But we’re not telling coach.”
I bite back a smile. The nerves of earlier are gone, replaced with something fizzier—anticipation.
Back in my room, Mia’s standing in front of the mirror, eyeliner halfway done, hair curled into messy waves. Sequined top, black skirt, and boots that could definitely kill a man.
“You’re going to Jake’s party too?” I blurt, dropping my kit bag.
She smirks. “Obviously. Whole psych cohort’s going. You?”
“Yeah. Angie’s dragging half the squad. She’s hosting pres in her dorm first—you should come.”
Her eyes light up. “You’re telling me I get to meet the hockey girls and not drink Aldi vodka alone in someone’s kitchen? Sold.”
I laugh, tugging open my wardrobe. Jeans, a fitted black top, gold hoops again. Something simple, but not invisible. Mia whistles low.
“Country girl cleans up nice.”
I roll my eyes, but the heat creeping up my neck gives me away.
Half an hour later, we’re weaving through the corridors of Angie’s dorm, music already thumping faintly behind a door. When it swings open, the air inside is warm and sticky with laughter. Bottles on the desk, fairy lights strung over the walls, a crowd of girls perched cross-legged on the bed.
“Oi, she made it!” Angie shouts, throwing an arm around me before I can step in properly. “And you brought your roomie—legend.”
Mia grins, sliding into the chaos like she was always part of it.
I let myself breathe it in—the glow of lights, the fizz of drinks being poured, the hum of voices rising together. For the first time, campus feels less like a maze and more like a map I’m starting to understand.
Angie’s dorm is loud in that perfect pre-party way — music half too loud for the speakers, bottles clinking, everyone sitting cross-legged on mismatched bedding. Fairy lights flicker across flushed cheeks and sequins.
Angie thrusts a plastic cup into my hand the second I sit down. “Hydration, obviously,” she winks.
“Obviously,” I grin, taking a sip.
The chatter is rapid-fire. Who’s got the worst lecturer so far. Who hooked up with who at last year’s hockey ball. Rumours about which rival uni girls are secretly training under fake names.
“You’re telling me she changed her surname just to transfer?” Skye says, wide-eyed.
Angie nods furiously. “Swear on my mum’s life. Saw her on Instagram before she deleted it.”
The room bursts into cackles. I can’t stop laughing, my face warm from both the drink and the ridiculous stories.
Mia’s perched on the arm of the sofa, hair catching in the fairy lights, her laugh smooth and easy. I catch her and Skye leaning close over a phone, shoulders brushing, whispering about something that sets them both off giggling.
“Careful,” Angie nudges me with a grin. “Your roommate’s stealing one of ours.”
I laugh into my drink. “She’s harmless. Mostly.”
Mia glances up then, eyes sparkling when she catches me watching, before she tips her head back toward Skye, who’s still whispering something outrageous in her ear.
The music shifts, louder now, and someone jumps up to dance in the tiny space between beds. Angie drags me up too, spinning me clumsily until I’m dizzy with laughter. For a moment, the nerves of the week fall away. It’s just us, girls in trainers and glitter, cups raised, gossip sharp and sweet in the air.
Tonight, it feels like I belong.
The music dips between songs, the chatter swelling to fill the gap. Angie plops down beside me again, refilling her cup with a splash that nearly hits the duvet.
“So…” Skye drawls, her grin wicked. “What do we think of Coach George?”
There’s a chorus of groans and squeals.
“Fit,” one girl admits immediately.
“Too fit,” another groans. “It’s a health hazard.”
Angie rolls her eyes. “Dangerous, more like. Boys’ squad golden boy. Uni practically worships him.”
I sip my drink, trying to look nonchalant. “Golden boy seems… intense.”
“That’s putting it politely,” Skye smirks. “He’s obsessed with winning. If he wasn't here to study as well, he would just live at the hockey pitch."
“Yeah, but he’s sworn off dating,” another pipes up, like she’s delivering gossip hot from the source. “Saw him at a bar last term — some girl was literally throwing herself at him, and he just walked away.”
“Sworn off dating?” I repeat, raising a brow.
Angie leans closer, eyes glinting. “Mm-hm. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have favourites.” Her look lands squarely on me.
Heat creeps up my neck. “What?”
“Oh, come on,” she laughs, nudging my shoulder. “You think we didn’t notice? The way he’s on your case every five seconds? Classic George. That’s how he shows it when he’s impressed.”
I shake my head, biting back a smile. “He was criticising me.”
“Exactly,” Skye says, smirking. “That’s affection in George-speak.”
The room bursts into laughter, and I hide my face in my cup, cheeks hot.
Somewhere between the teasing and the music thumping back to life, I realise my chest feels lighter. Maybe it’s the drinks, maybe it’s Angie’s grin, maybe it’s the fact that—for the first time—the girls’ banter feels like I’m part of it, not just listening in.
By the time we tumble out of Angie’s dorm, the night air is cool against flushed skin. Music and laughter spill down the stairwell behind us, our little squad weaving across campus in a noisy pack.
Jake’s flat isn’t far, just off the main strip. You can hear it before you see it—bass thumping through the pavement, voices rising, the occasional whoop from someone leaning out a window.
When we turn the corner, the house is already heaving. People spilling onto the front lawn with drinks in hand, fairy lights strung across the fence, the door wide open like a mouth swallowing everyone whole.
“This is madness,” Skye mutters, eyes bright, clearly thrilled.
“Standard O-Week,” Angie grins, tugging us forward. “Welcome to the jungle.”
Inside, the place is a crush of bodies. Warm beer, cheap perfume, and sweat hang in the air. Kitchen counters are lined with bottles, half-finished drinks abandoned on every surface. A makeshift DJ is set up in the lounge, the floor bouncing under the weight of dancers.
Mia loops her arm through mine. “This is insane,” she shouts over the music, laughing. She doesn’t let go, dragging me deeper into the chaos until we find a pocket of space near the kitchen.
Skye’s already talking to someone she knows from class, Angie’s filling cups at the sink, and I take a moment to breathe it in—too loud, too crowded, but electric in a way that prickles under my skin.
I lean against the counter, cup in hand, chatting with a couple of second-years about lectures. It feels good — normal, almost. Like I’ve been here longer than two days.
Someone shouts “down it!” from across the room, a cheer rising as two guys race through pints. Angie rolls her eyes. “Boys,” she mutters, but she’s smiling.
I laugh, taking another sip, and let myself relax into the chaos. The music is pounding, bodies weaving around each other, heat sticking clothes to skin.
Then a ripple moves through the crowd near the back door, a space opening as the men’s squad pushes in — loud, tall, impossible to miss in their hoodies and team jackets.
“Oi, oi!” Curly Hair bellows when he spots us. “Girls! What are you doing here?”
He sounds half shocked, half like a big brother catching his little sister sneaking out.
Broad Shoulders frowns, shaking his head. “This isn’t your scene. Too messy. You should’ve stayed in.”
Skye snorts, hands on her hips. “We’re not made of glass.”
“Still,” Glasses chimes in, more serious. “Crowds like this get rowdy. Keep your drinks in your hands. Don’t let anyone—”
“Relax,” Angie interrupts, rolling her eyes. “We can handle ourselves.”
That’s when George appears at the back of the group, leaning against the doorframe with that same insufferable calm. His eyes skim the room, landing briefly on me.
“Angie’s right,” he says, voice low but carrying. “They’re hockey girls. They’ll be fine.”
The boys grumble but let it drop, though not without a few more protective side-eyes.
I sip my drink, pulse kicking harder than the bass in the speakers. Of course he’d be here. Of course he’d notice.
The music swells, the bass rattling through the floorboards. The boys don’t leave straight away — they linger, half-guarding, half-joining, their tall frames like a wall behind us. The chatter turns into jokes, challenges, teasing about who’s faster, who’s stronger.
I laugh along, but every time my eyes catch George’s, it’s like the noise dips. He doesn’t say much, doesn’t even join the banter, but I can feel him watching — just enough to make my chest tight.
I’m mid-sentence with Mia when it happens.
Some guy I don’t recognise pushes past with a half-empty can, already sloshing. His elbow clips mine, and cold liquid splashes straight down my front, soaking into my sweater.
“Oi, watch it!” Angie snaps, but the guy’s already swallowed by the crowd.
“Shit,” I mutter, staring at the spreading stain. Sticky, cold, clinging. “Brilliant.”
Before I can grab napkins or even move, George is there, hand closing gently around my wrist. “Come on.”
“I can—” I start, but he’s already guiding me through the crush of bodies, his grip firm, cutting through the crowd like it’s nothing.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind us, muffling the music. The sudden quiet feels deafening.
George lets go of my wrist and grabs paper towels, running one quickly under the tap before handing it to me. “Here. Before it sets.”
I dab at the fabric awkwardly, cheeks burning. His reflection in the mirror is steady, arms folded, leaning against the sink like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Classic O-Week,” he says finally, voice low. “Someone always ends up covered in beer.”
I glance up at him in the mirror. “Lucky me.”
Something flickers across his face — not a smirk this time, something softer. “Could’ve been worse.”
The silence between us thickens, louder than the bass outside. His eyes catch mine again, steady, unreadable, and for a second I can’t tell if he’s still my coach or just a boy in a bathroom at a party, standing too close.
The damp patch clings cold and sticky against my chest, no matter how much I dab at it. I groan, tugging the fabric away from my skin.
“This isn’t working,” I mutter. My fingers hesitate at the hem of my top — then I pull it over my head in one swift movement, leaving me in nothing but a lacy bra I definitely hadn’t planned on anyone seeing.
The top lands in the sink with a wet slap. I twist the tap on, rinsing it under the stream.
Behind me, George goes still. Leaning against the sink a second ago, arms folded, now his posture has shifted — taut, like he’s forcing himself not to look. His jaw flexes once, eyes flicking up to mine in the mirror before darting away.
“You didn’t have to—” His voice is low, almost rough.
“It’s just a top,” I cut him off, twisting water from the fabric. “Better than smelling like beer all night.”
Silence hums thick between us. The bass outside thumps faintly through the walls, but in here, it’s like the world’s holding its breath.
When I glance up in the mirror again, his eyes are on me. Not mocking. Not smirking. Just… watching.
“You’re making this hard,” he says suddenly, voice tight.
I blink, heat climbing my neck. “Making what hard?”
His hand drags down the back of his neck, like he’s trying to work something out of his system. “It’s been two days. Two. And I’m already—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. “I shouldn’t even be saying this.”
I turn, sweater dripping in my hands. “Already what?”
His eyes lock on mine, steady, almost pained. “Fighting the urge to kiss you.”
My breath catches. The words hang between us, heavy, impossible to ignore.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The only sound is the drip of water into the basin and the muffled shouts of the party outside.
My breath catches, the damp fabric slipping in my hands. I turn, chest tight, and he’s there — closer than I realised, the space between us gone in a heartbeat.
When his mouth finally finds mine, it’s sharp, desperate, like we’ve both been holding it back too long. The kiss deepens quickly, his hand brushing my bare waist, my own fingers curling into his hoodie. My pulse is everywhere — in my lips, in my throat, in the press of his body against mine.
For a moment, it’s just heat and want and the sound of our breaths colliding. His hand slides higher, skimming the curve of my ribs, the lace of my bra, sending sparks through every nerve.
My fingers reach for the bottom of his shirt, as I palm my way upwards feeling his chest. He continues by moving his arms to squeeze my ass and hiking me up to be now sit on the basin.
Then he freezes.
His breath stutters against my mouth. His hand drops back like it’s burned. “Shit,” he whispers, eyes squeezing shut. “I can’t. I’m your coach.”
The words slice the air.
I swallow hard, chest heaving, still clutching his hoodie. The silence is deafening, broken only by the muffled bass outside.
He steps back slowly, dragging a hand down his face like it might erase what just happened. “I shouldn’t have done that.” His voice is hoarse, raw.
I stand there in the too-bright bathroom, top dripping in the sink, lips still tingling, and wonder how I’m supposed to walk back into that party like nothing just happened.
summary: It started with rivalry and ended in silence. Now, one season, one team, and one stubborn spark might bring the two hockey players back to where it all went wrong—between the lines.
warnings: mild language, rough play (sporting), tension, sexual references, homesickness, suggestive/smut content
minors do not interact - 18+ (mdni)
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Series
Part One: First Whistle
Part Two: Training Drills
Part Three: Yellow Card
Part Four: Extra Time
Part Five: The Finals
GUYS! GUYS! GUYS! I've been working so hard on this series for so long and am finally excited to share it with you. I have grown up playing field hockey for over 12 years, and it was so engaging writing about their story based around the game I have loved!!!
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what i write:
fanfictions based on characters, shows, films, and creators/celebrities.
formatting includes; one-shots, multi-parts, headcannons, and song-inspired stories.
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requests that include hate, harassment, or discrimination.
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please be patience with me when requesting:
sometimes i turn my direction to other writing first.
i'm currently in my second university degree; so am quite busy.
i always aim to maintain a work/uni/social lifestyle outside of writing.
who i write for:
✦ DC; clark kent / superman, barry allen / the flash
✦ Marvel; johnny storm / human torch, peter parker / spiderman, bucky barnes / the winter soldier, steve rogers, robert reynolds
✦ Movies; scott miller (twisters),
✦ TV; conrad fisher (TSITP), wally clark (school spirits)
✦ ukyt; george clark, harry lewis, arthur tv, willne
