The moment I step into the arena, the sheer noise nearly knocks me off my feet.

It's a game night.

I don't know how I managed to forget, but now, standing just inside the employee entrance, the realization hits me like a slap to the face. The energy in the air is charged, electric, the dull hum of the refrigeration system beneath the rink barely audible beneath the roar of the packed crowd.

The stands are filled with students, families, and die-hard fans, all dressed in Baymount Venom jerseys and hoodies, some waving scarves and foam fingers, others gripping beers as they cheer at something happening on the ice. The arena's massive overhead screens flicker with a slow-motion replay of a check so brutal I can practically feel the impact. The walls tremble with every chant, every yell, every echoing pound of fists against the Plexiglas.

And I'm late.

I bolt down the hallway, skidding past other employees, my sneakers squeaking against the polished floors as I navigate my way toward the concession stand. The smell of buttery popcorn, nacho cheese, and fresh pretzels hangs thick in the air, mixing with the faint scent of ice and rubber. The closer I get, the more chaotic everything becomes—voices overlapping, orders being shouted, the register chiming repeatedly as the line stretches halfway down the concourse.

This is a disaster.

I push past a few stragglers, bursting through the side entrance of the stand, panting, slightly breathless, my apron already half tied around my waist.

Doug is there, arms crossed, expression flat.

His face says it all.

I'm in trouble.

I flash my best, most innocent smile, though I doubt it'll do much. "Hey, Doug! You look—uh—great tonight. Big game, huh?"

He doesn't blink. "You're late, Calloway."

"Technically, it's only—" I glance at the clock, wince. "Okay. Yeah. I'm late."

Doug sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Behind him, the rest of the team is already scrambling to keep up with orders, passing baskets of fries and pretzels over the counter, refilling soda cups at a speed that should qualify as a sport.

"You missed pre-rush prep," Doug says, voice exasperated. "We ran out of hot dogs ten minutes ago. Go get more from the back."

I nod quickly, already moving toward the storage room. "Got it. Hot dogs. I'm on it."

Doug calls after me, deadpan. "And Calloway?"

I pause, glancing over my shoulder.

"Don't drop anything this time."

I scowl. "That was one time."

Doug doesn't respond, just waves me off, turning back to the register.

I mutter under my breath as I push my way toward the storage room, navigating through the maze of stacked soda cases and bulk food containers, shoving open the metal door at the back.

The cold storage hits me instantly, a sharp contrast to the humid heat of the main stand. The overhead light flickers slightly, casting long shadows across the stacks of frozen inventory. I shuffle through the shelves, grabbing the tray of hot dogs, balancing it carefully against my hip as I turn back toward the door.

Then, just as I step out—

BOOM.

A goal horn blasts through the speakers, shaking the walls, rattling my skull, making me jump so hard I nearly drop the entire tray.

I curse under my breath, adjusting my grip as the crowd erupts into deafening cheers, stomping and chanting, the energy so intense it vibrates through the floor. The scoreboard above the rink flashes brightly, showing Baymount up by one.

I don't need to see the replay to know exactly who scored.

The announcer's voice booms through the speakers.

"And that's ANOTHER goal for Mikhaylov! That's two for him tonight!"

Of course.

Of course it's him.

I groan, gritting my teeth as I hurry back toward the stand, trying to ignore the way the crowd is still roaring Luka's name. The last thing I need right now is to be reminded that he exists, let alone that he's scoring goals left and right.

I make it back to the counter just in time for Doug to shoot me a look that says move faster.

I do.

For the next hour, it's nonstop chaos.

People shouting orders, waving cash, demanding refills, asking if we have gluten-free options (we don't), requesting "extra, extra cheese" on their nachos, spilling soda on the counter, debating whether to buy another overpriced beer.

I don't stop moving.

By the time there's a small break in the rush, my arms feel like they're about to fall off. I grip the edge of the counter, catching my breath, my head still spinning from the sheer volume of people we've served.

Doug slides past me, grabbing a roll of quarters for the register. "How's it going, Calloway? Keeping up?"

I give him a flat look. "Barely."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Welcome to game day, kid."

I groan, rubbing my temple. "How much time is left?"

Doug glances at the scoreboard on the monitor above the counter. "Third period. We've got about fifteen minutes left, then post-game rush."

I sigh dramatically, my entire body slumping against the counter as the weight of the past few hours settles into my bones. Every muscle in my back aches, my shoulders stiff from the endless cycle of reaching, bending, shoving trays of greasy food across the counter at impatient customers. My fingers are sticky with dried soda from a spill I barely had time to clean, and the scent of buttery popcorn has completely embedded itself into my clothes.

"Great. Can't wait."

Doug smirks, far too entertained by my suffering, completely unfazed by the exhaustion written all over my face. "Perks of the job."

I don't bother responding, mostly because I don't have the energy, but also because I'm too focused on the shift in the atmosphere. The entire arena feels different now. The once booming, electric energy has faded, replaced with something dull, something heavy. It's not silent—there's still the occasional murmur of conversation, the distant shuffle of feet, the lingering scent of stale beer—but the excitement that once filled the air is completely gone.

Baymount lost.

And people are pissed.

The entire game had been on a knife's edge, fast-paced, brutal, the kind that had fans gripping the edges of their seats, chanting, roaring with every near miss, every solid hit against the boards. But then, with just thirty seconds left on the clock, everything fell apart. A goal slipped past the Venom's defense, quick and clean, the kind of shot that left no room for recovery. The final buzzer sounded, the visiting team erupted into cheers, and just like that, it was over.

Defeat settled over the arena like a thick, suffocating fog. Fans trudged toward the exits, some shaking their heads in frustration, others grumbling about missed calls and blown plays. There's no celebration, no chants of victory, no drunken shouts of triumph. Instead, there's just the dull buzz of disappointment, the kind that seeps into your skin and lingers.

I don't care either way.

I just want to go home.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, rubbing at my sore shoulder, casting a quick glance at the clock hanging on the wall behind the register. Fifteen more minutes. Fifteen more minutes until I can untie this apron, clock out, and erase this night from my memory.

And then, just as I'm about to turn away, I see him.

Luka Mikhaylov.

I see him before I hear him, the broad set of his shoulders, the slight sheen of sweat on his skin, his jersey still clinging to him from the game. His hockey bag is slung over his shoulder, heavy against his back, his expression a dark, unreadable mask. His short buzzed hair is damp, beads of sweat still clinging to his forehead, his posture stiff, tense, every inch of him radiating pure frustration.

I immediately look away, hoping—praying—he'll walk past, head to the locker room, leave me alone.

But no.

Luka Mikhaylov does not wait in line.

The moment he steps up to the counter—ignoring the people standing there, ignoring the clear, obvious fact that I am in the middle of taking someone else's order—it takes everything in me not to snap.

The arena is still buzzing with frustration, the energy in the air thick with disappointment after the loss. Fans are filing out of their seats, some lingering near the concourse, still grumbling about bad plays and missed chances. The noise hasn't died completely, but it's no longer the roar of excitement.

And now?

Now, Luka is standing right in front of me, radiating the same irritation that seems to cling to every person in the building. His shoulders are stiff, his jersey clinging to him, the sharp angles of his face tense, unreadable. There's no smirk, no usual air of detached amusement that he always seems to carry. Just pure frustration.

I don't care.

I don't care that he's mad about the game, that he played his heart out only to lose at the last second. I don't care that he probably just spent the last ten minutes getting chewed out by his coach. I don't care.

Because he skipped the line.

I set down the fries I was handing to a customer, my fingers tightening around the counter. I know I should let it go. Just take his order and move on. But something about the way he just breezed past everyone, like waiting in line is beneath him, like he owns this place, like I'm just here to serve him and nothing else, makes my patience snap.

"You can't just cut in line," I say, my voice sharper than I intend.

Luka doesn't even look at me at first, just pulls out some cash, slaps it onto the counter like this is a business transaction that should already be over.

"Large Coke," he says. Flat. Emotionless. Like I'm not even worth looking at.

I don't reach for a cup.

Instead, I cross my arms, lifting a brow. "There's a line."

Luka finally glances at me, his icy blue eyes flicking up in a slow, deliberate movement, filled with nothing but impatience. "And?"

And?

And?

I blink at him, stunned, because I know he's arrogant, I know he's got an ego the size of this entire arena, but this? This is on another level.

I glance behind him, at the people still waiting, watching, their expressions a mix of amusement and anticipation, like they want to see where this goes. Some of them look annoyed, but no one says anything, because this is Luka Mikhaylov, and calling him out probably isn't worth the trouble.

But I am not them.

"You really think you don't have to wait like everyone else?" I ask, arms still crossed.

Luka scoffs, barely blinking. "I don't wait in lines."

The casualness of it, the sheer arrogance, makes my blood boil.

"You think you're better than everyone?" I press.

"Obviously," Luka deadpans, pulling his wallet from his pocket, flipping through bills like this conversation is already over.

I see red.

But still, I force myself to grab a cup. Not for him. Not because he gets what he wants. But because I want him to take his drink and leave before I do something stupid.

I fill the cup with soda, my movements stiff, my hands slightly shaky from anger. I slam the lid on and shove it across the counter toward him.

"There," I mutter. "Now get back in line like a normal person."

Luka picks up the cup but doesn't move.

He lifts it slowly, tilting it slightly, inspecting it like he's searching for a reason to be annoyed. Then, finally, he looks at me again, head tilted slightly to the side.

"You're pissed about a drink," he says, voice flat, like this is a joke to him.

I clench my jaw. "I'm pissed about you thinking you're entitled to whatever you want."

Luka huffs out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Jesus. You need to relax, Concession Girl."

Something inside me snaps.

Before I can think, before I can register what I'm doing, I grab the same cup he's holding—

And I throw the liquid right at him.

The impact is instant.

The soda splashes against his chest, the dark fabric of his jersey soaking through immediately, sticky Coke dripping down onto the floor. The sharp gasp from the people waiting behind him is almost deafening, a mixture of shock, disbelief, and pure entertainment.

Luka goes completely still.

I can hear the ice cubes hit the tile, the droplets of soda sliding down his arms, his knuckles twitching as his fists clench at his sides.

But he doesn't react right away.

He just stands there, completely soaked, his jaw locked, his blue eyes pinned to mine with a look so sharp, so deadly, it sends a shiver down my spine.

And then—

A voice from the side cuts through the silence.

"Holy shit," someone mutters. "I got that on video."

My stomach drops.

Slowly, Luka glances to the side, barely acknowledging the person recording, before his gaze flicks back to me.

His voice is low, quiet, terrifyingly controlled.

"Did you just throw a fucking drink at me?"

My breath catches in my throat.

I want to say something, anything, but the words are lodged behind the sheer weight of what I just did.

Luka doesn't move.

His chest rises and falls with slow, controlled breaths, but his jaw is still tight, his fingers still twitching at his sides like he's barely holding something in.

I should be scared.

I should be apologizing.

But my anger is still there, simmering beneath my skin, refusing to let me back down.

"Yeah," I say, forcing my voice to stay even. "I did."

A slow exhale, measured and careful, his head tilting just slightly, studying me like I'm something new, something unexpected.

The crowd is still watching, waiting, silent.

I can hear the buzz of the phone still recording, the whispers, the disbelief.

Luka lifts a hand, swipes a palm down his jersey, flicking off some of the sticky soda. Then, slowly, he leans in, just enough to make the space between us feel suffocating.

"You're gonna regret that, Calloway," he murmurs, voice so quiet, so low, it sends a sharp chill down my spine.

And then, without another word, he turns—walking away, his soaked jersey clinging to his back, the concourse parting around him like a storm just blew through.

I feel the weight of a dozen eyes on me, the whispers, the shock, the person still holding up their phone.

And all I can think is—

Oh. Shit.

—---------

It's Sunday afternoon, and the world outside is slow, quiet, almost peaceful, a stark contrast to the past few days of nonstop chaos. The air is crisp, the early autumn breeze slipping through the open kitchen window, carrying the faint scent of damp leaves and freshly cut grass. The neighborhood is still, the kind of stillness that only comes when people are tucked inside, savoring the last few hours of the weekend before Monday creeps in.

I should be relaxed.

But I'm not.

Because the past few days have been a nightmare.

The video—the one of me throwing an entire soda in Luka Mikhaylov's face in the middle of a packed arena—has officially gone viral.

It started small. A few students shared it on Instagram, laughing about how I had the guts to do what everyone else had probably dreamed of doing at some point. Then, someone uploaded it to Twitter. A hockey meme page picked it up. The caption was something ridiculous like Concession Girl said F U to Baymount's star player and, within twenty-four hours, it was everywhere.

I've seen the comments.

Some people think it's the funniest thing ever, calling me a hero, saying Luka had it coming, that someone finally put him in his place. Others are not as amused, mostly die-hard hockey fans and students who are convinced I disrespected the golden boy of Baymount. Some are debating whether Luka deserved it, others are analyzing the exact moment his face darkened like a thundercloud, like they're watching a cinematic masterpiece or an enemies to lovers movie in action.

And then there are the comments that just say: She's screwed.

Which, yeah. I know.

Because Luka hasn't said a word.

Not online. Not in interviews. Not anywhere.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

I exhale slowly, pressing my fingers against my temples as I sit at the kitchen table, trying to shake the tension clinging to my body. My dad moves around the kitchen, focused on dinner, humming along to the old Brazilian record playing from the speaker. The air smells rich and comforting, the scent of simmering tomato sauce blending with warm spices.

I glance toward the living room, where my little brother, Simon, is sprawled across the couch, half-watching the soccer game on TV, half-glued to his iPad. His curly dark hair bounces slightly as he shifts, his oversized socks sliding against the cushions. He's ten, which means he's at the age where he has opinions about everything, especially soccer.

Right now, his focus is split between whatever game he's playing on his tablet and the match on TV, but every few minutes, he looks up just to yell at the screen.

"That was offside!" Simon groans dramatically, throwing his arms in the air like the ref can hear him. "Are they blind? That was so offside!"

I raise an eyebrow. "You sound like Dad."

Simon snaps his head toward me, eyes wide with offense. "Take that back."

Dad laughs, shaking his head as he sits down, his face softening just slightly. "Let him yell, Sofia. It's his birthright."

I roll my eyes, but there's affection underneath it.

The house feels smaller than it used to. Maybe because I'm older now, or maybe because it's just not as full as it should be.

It wasn't always just the three of us.

I don't talk about my mom often.

People ask, sometimes—not to be cruel, just curious. They notice the difference. They see my darker features, the contrast between me and my very American last name. They hear my dad's voice, clear, crisp English, no accent, no trace of the language my mother would have spoken to me if she were still here.

I know what they wonder.

But I don't explain.

Because how do you sum up a person in a few sentences?

How do you explain a loss that still lingers, that still curls around the edges of every memory like a shadow?

My mother was Brazilian, born and raised in Rio, with a laugh that filled entire rooms and a presence that made everything feel warmer. She met my dad when he was in college—a study abroad program that was only supposed to last a semester but changed everything. They fell in love fast, the kind of love people write about, the kind that seemed bigger than anything else.

She moved to the U.S. for him. They got married, had me. Then later, Simon came along.

And for a while, it was perfect.

Until it wasn't.

I was ten when she died.

Simon was barely a newborn.

It was a car crash—one of those terrible things you never think will happen to you, until it does. One minute she was here, picking me up from school like any other normal day. And then the next—

She wasn't.

After that, everything changed.

Dad was suddenly alone, raising two kids, one still a baby, one old enough to understand but not old enough to know what to do with that understanding. He had to take more shifts, pick up more hours, work longer nights to keep us afloat. The bills didn't stop just because our family did.

And me?

I learned how to hold things in.

I learned how to take care of Simon when Dad wasn't home, how to make sure I never added to his stress, how to never ask for more than what was already being given.

I learned that money was always tight.

That's why I got the job at the arena.

Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Because the reality is, my dad works his ass off, and we still barely make it work. Rent, groceries, bills—they all add up. And I refuse to be the person who makes things harder.

Maybe that's why the video makes me feel so sick.

Because I don't do things like this.

I don't make a scene.

I don't get involved.

I don't throw soda at Baymount's star hockey player and end up on everyone's feed for it.

But I did.

And now, I have to deal with it.

A voice cuts through my thoughts.

"Dinner's almost ready," Dad calls, placing the last dish down. "Sofia, set the table?"

I blink, forcing myself back to reality. The kitchen is warm, the smell of food wrapping around me like something safe, something real. I nod, grabbing the plates, moving on autopilot.

In the living room, Simon is still glued to the TV, his small frame curled up on the couch, completely immersed in the match. He's ten, but sometimes, I forget how young that really is. He was too little to remember Mom, too little to feel the loss in the same way I did. Sometimes I wonder if that's a blessing or a curse.

This—this is home.

Messy. Familiar. Comforting.

Even if it's just the three of us now.

Even if everything else has changed.

I sit down, pushing aside the thoughts of the video, of Luka, of everything waiting for me when I step back onto campus. Right now, this moment, this warmth, this small, fleeting sense of normalcy—it's all I have.

Dinner is over, the plates are stacked in the sink, and Simon has officially crashed on the couch, one sock half-off, his tablet still loosely gripped in his hands. Dad disappeared into his office about twenty minutes ago—probably answering work emails or figuring out his schedule for the week.

And me?

I'm sitting at the kitchen table, my phone resting in front of me, my body finally unwinding from the tension of the day. The warmth of home wraps around me—the lingering scent of dinner, the soft hum of the dishwasher, the faint commentary from the muted soccer game still playing in the background. It's peaceful, in a way that makes me almost forget about everything waiting for me back on campus.

Almost.

Because, of course, that's when my phone buzzes.

I glance at it, expecting a text from Julian, but the moment I see the notification, my stomach drops.

New Email – Baymount University Athletics Department

I blink.

And then blink again.

Because, surely, I'm seeing things.

I click on it, and instantly, my heart jumps to my throat.

From: Coach Reynolds (Baymount Athletics) Subject: Meeting Request

Sofia,

I'd like to meet with you tomorrow afternoon to discuss an opportunity. Please stop by my office at 2:00 PM.

Best,

Coach Reynolds

An opportunity.

An. Opportunity.

No. No, no, no.

This is not an opportunity. This is how they word things when they're about to fire you but want to sound professional about it.

I stare at my screen, my fingers tightening around the phone, my pulse thudding in my ears.

I'm so screwed.

My job at the arena? Gone.

My ability to afford groceries and gas? Gone.

My sanity? Already gone.

I jump up from my chair, pacing the kitchen, panic crawling up my spine like an actual living thing.

This is it. This is the end.

They probably saw the video, talked it over with some fancy department board, and decided, Hey, let's ruin this girl's life!

I try to think. Try to breathe.

Okay. Let's go over the facts.

Fact one: I assaulted a star athlete with carbonated sugar water.

Fact two: Someone filmed it.

Fact three: The entire internet saw it.

Fact four: The university probably saw it, too.

Fact five: I am definitely getting fired.

I groan, dragging a hand down my face, mentally calculating how long I can survive on my emergency savings if I get kicked out of my job. Two weeks, maybe three if I only eat instant ramen and convince Julian to steal snacks from the dining hall.

Speaking of Julian.

I grab my phone, my fingers flying over the keyboard as I text him.

Me: I'M GETTING FIRED.

Julian: What did you do this time?

Me: CHECK YOUR EMAIL.

Julian: ?? I am not employed by Baymount Athletics, babe.

Me: I GOT AN EMAIL. FROM THE COACH.

Julian: oh shit.

Me: EXACTLY.

Julian: did they actually say you're fired tho??

Me: No, they said they want to discuss an "opportunity."

Julian: .... that sounds fake.

Me: IT'S CORPORATE FOR "YOU'RE DONE, PACK YOUR SHIT."

Julian: lmao okay but what if it's something else??

Me: What ELSE would it be???

Julian: idk. A new job? A sponsorship? Maybe you're gonna be Luka's new personal beverage distributor??

Me: JULIAN.

Julian: Kidding. Mostly.

I groan, dropping my head onto the kitchen counter.

There is no way this is anything but a termination notice in disguise.

I exhale slowly, forcing myself to think.

Maybe if I go in apologetic, really sell the "I'm just a struggling college student who made a mistake" angle, they'll have mercy. Maybe if I explain how much I need this job, they'll just give me a warning instead of kicking me out.

Or—maybe they'll just fire me on the spot.

I glance at the email again, reading the words over and over, as if some hidden message will magically appear.

But it doesn't.

It just sits there.

Mocking me.

I groan again, slamming my phone onto the table and dropping into a chair, my head in my hands.

Tomorrow, at 2:00 PM, I'll find out if my financial stability officially goes up in flames.

THANK YOU FOR READING CHAPTER 5!

Five chapters in, and Sofia has officially launched a soda at Luka. Was it deserved? Absolutely. Would she do it again? Probably.

Thank you for reading and sticking with Offside Hearts! If you're enjoying the chaos, don't be shy—drop a comment! I'd love to hear your thoughts on the tension, the drama, or just Luka getting what he deserves.

More coming your way next Friday!

— Méganne